Milton

　　 by David Groff

　　 Not the poet-though yes，

　　 a poet， aspiring. Old.

　　 At Big Cup he regards us

　　 slickened with testosterone，

　　 his eyes entertained.

　　 Though his full hair helps him

　　 seem a youth in drag

　　 save for the swags of his neck，

　　 he can't but help present

　　 himself as age itself，

　　 a brand of birthmark

　　 we think we won't accrue，

　　 unnerving as June rime

　　 limning a suburban lawn，

　　 as if he were a black man

　　 scouting a Mormon temple.

　　 His melting candle of body，

　　 cupped， burns. He grins.

　　 Compare him to the man-crone

　　 trolling Our Place

　　 in Des Moines with Frank

　　 Fortuna and Dan Grace

　　 two decades ago：

　　 Brutally cruising， drunken，

　　 his halo of hair aflame，

　　 he swaggered to budding men

　　 declaring "You'll be me！，"

　　 his annunciation denunciation，

　　 then stalked off， sated.

　　 The boys， abashed and angry，

　　 decided time was a virus

　　 you just had to swallow.

　　 "The faggot angel of death，"

　　 Frank baptized him.

　　 Now Frank is fifty-one，

　　 commences drinking at noon.

　　 Maybe knowing Frank，

　　 or himself an initiate of crones，

　　 and warhorse of Village cafes

　　 whose soldiers now are wraiths，

　　 （who here knows

　　 what old men know？），

　　 Milton acts like he belongs.

　　 He steps among tattoos，

　　 buzzed hair， and bashful mouths，

　　 inhales the caffeine and finds

　　 himself an appropriate chair，

　　 surveying the sipping guys，

　　 while taking care to seem

　　 a clean old man.

　　 He winks， to summon us

　　 to the fallen fruit of himself

　　 that if we've got guts enough

　　 we will pick up and eat