A True Story

there is a flea

living in my hairy navel,

a queer little bug

named Francine from

Mexico City’s

finest tequila joint,

and he told me once

as i slept and dreamt of

high school book reports

that there is no

right or wrong side

of the bed, remember it

in the morning, he said

sometimes he crawls

into my brain, takes hold

of the control board, he

marches me up to a

police officer, a big motha

standing outside the

public library and

makes me say to him,

“what if your girlfriend

found one of my

long strands of brown hair

in your bed?”

what would you tell her?”

and that big beast goes

and gives me

a bloody nose

but it’s ok, it is,

Francine says punches taken

only hurt a moment, but

they hurt the ones

who throw them

for a whole lot longer,

so my little free flea friend

holds a bag of ice

up to my poor nose

and we watch reruns of

I Love Lucy

on our dirty old sofa,

and it’s good to

have faithful friends

who push you off

the tallest cliffs

and brush you off

at the bottom