Pig Latin is a romance language.
He is standard, weather‐fickle,
The type who can order
From the cold heart of a catalog.
The type they celebrate,
Body perfect, he belongs in Prague
Or Paris, counting pigeons in a sports car.
Waving his defined arms at every busboy,
Garçon, Garçon, send more truffles thataway,
To the petite, piss-and-bleach blonde.
He is careless, tacky.
October in the upper
He spoke of murder,
With the warmth
Of an Indian summer.
There’s something wrong
With me, he laughs and buries
The bullets at the border
The gun in Canada.