Mister D.

MISTER D. is
always with me.

He’s there, mugging
in my mirror:

tonguing his teeth,
spritzing every

perfume. Goofing off
at the market:

sampling cheeses
and juggling fruit.

AND there he is,
near my lover’s

bed ― even when
fevered fingers

are climbing my
spine ― waving

that silly scythe,
making some nice

shadows and lights
for the seeming,

but very
little breeze.

MISTER D. is always
with me.