You coat yourself in petroleum.
You slap your own face at the thought.
You throw sticks at the snake in your path.     
You crack open a golden egg.

You stuff a hundred in the kettle.
You yearn for a phone with black heft.
You watch snow falling in the past.
You no longer dance, alone, so crazy!

You thread through crowded rooms.
You batten down, you fly upright.
You gather fragments of gold shell.
You have lost the one most proud.

You no longer bait or tease the lion.
You feed the lion.  You keep him ready.

__

"My Lion," is a kind of homage to my mentor, the poet Phil Levine, in honor of his poem "They Feed They Lion." It is also a kind of message to Phil, and though it must travel a long way to reach him, I'm confident it eventually will.