Barrel

 

Barrel

 

Those tiny packets of creamer

with sticky peelers

tear before any useful hole appears.

The liquid interiors

refuse suitable passage,

afraid of the exterior—

what it might hold.

It won’t be told,

insists on clinging to what it knows.

So it goes.

 

But where? It’s forgotten,

ladled from a barrel’s bottom,

where it clung—stubborn—

like a limpet grips its rock,

blocked and locked.

Or a bivalve feels each passing tide,

sucking only what it needs inside—

knows nothing, stays alive,

safe in what it doesn’t know.

Watch Mary’s garden grow,

all quite contrary—

fermenting, curdling, souring, bubbling,

drips in thickness from the tap,

and lands unwanted in your lap.

 

Its third-rate degree and PGCE

in throwing parties, in long island iced tea,

in fleshy post pictures—

necking shots of cream liqueur,

see its eyes always flicker,

like a betrayed snake’s tongue:

testing the air, overhung,

on the lookout, on the run—

because they know, don’t they?

 

Be aware of what they will say.

Say it first. Use stone-age tools

to build bilge-hooped casks -

looking good in your mask.

Ingest any useful rules—

spit them like venom where you can,

your instant whip-escape plan,

have a doctor’s note,

and teach by rote.

Surround yourself with other woods,

cut and cover pulled hoods,

be bold in your apparel

and have them over your barrel.