A Note Upon A Workshop Instructor With Tiny Hairs Under His Chin

I guess the funniest thing I can
think of
right now
under this black-ceiling’d
evening

is this one woman I once
lived with
who told me over the phone
(5 years ago):
“Ramsey says he is going to make
his move now.   he says that he is
tired of waiting.”

Ramsey wrote cute rhymers
was a registered member of the
Communist party
and had taught a poetry workshop
in a Unitarian church
on Tuesday nights for
20 years
while collecting rents on property
he owned.

“yeah,” I answered, “but what is he
going to move with?”

she hung up.   she had always loved
Ramsey even though she had
never
been to bed with him.

the bed sometimes held more truth
than Marx. othertimes,
less.