Father, no sir. Your keys are in Cali,
sunk to the sediment of no man’s tomb.
Vent a pregnant tune. Feed polenta
to a sick kid in Cairo from your tiara.
Pan him, know him, quote giddy anthems
that no business holds dear.
And diminish no busy Lolita, no sir;
stick it to no timid debutante’s nostril.
At nine or so, induct us
with ten tattered omens said liberally
and with marshmallow. Amen.