The night of operas is upon me,
sad operas of unimaginable Floridas
and cruel Carolinas.

I am the man on the corner that no one notices.

I’ve dined on my own sorrows
and have been weighed down by dreams.

That which crushes is the maker of wines.
I am red.
I am filled with green bottles.
I am filled with corks bobbin on a blue-black sea.

I’m the eccentric old man yelling at the children crossing my lawn.

Death smokes his pipe and listens to Mahler from an old Victrola.
He’s been on my porch for a week now.

I won’t let him in.
So is the crush of age.

Time slips by the ringing of so many wet bells,
and the wine’s turned to vinegar.