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Dave Bonta
scab employed till I bled
a little too much
I have no company now
led a little too much
but I love serving the best
flowers in my garden
in the woods I found
good company
everyone was absent as a drunk
present as an old sign
I spoke one word
and away home
I found a garden in my mind,
and good company.
I stayed there
till I was ill and vomited,
and in the morning got cold
and had pain in pissing.
At the office, all
hunt for ash—no fire.
The company is
another gone god.
I receive a subpoena for it,
give it a bed
between the midwife and the day.
I went among others
to be mended. But
their beautiful company
showed me an old bag—
my ill condition. Nobody
could make me desire to be.
I do not know
the trick of trust.
A man with feathers was in quest
of a kite, but through want of time
was taken up by joy.
High words would have been better,
but all the company was dancing
and tumbling, vexed about joy.
At church, a strange company,
a great store of gall,
an impertinent sling,
a child in a well.
I work with pleasure.
Near an end of work,
I burn to give
satisfaction
to the company.
Take me.
Make me.
Where to find good company?
My father’s a pint of sack
and I a weak sea.
I bark in Latin
at a dozen bottles of wine.
A borrowed voyage:
we dine and talk
and the wine is
excellent company.
Water to the ship, we met
the owners—we
brothers in the company—
and all our guns
were open
to revenge.
I paid to free from a dinner dish
two dozen larks, a great company,
and all were merry.
They drank a bottle of wine, fell down,
and ate from my hand.