1277

ONE-ISSUE VOTER

That's my sweater you're
Making into a gavel-to-gavel
Pedigreed avant-garde,
My little Chincoteague escapee.
I am certain neither of us is a Martian

Nor do we weigh and color
Every vowel by hand. The sea monster
Hauling himself up out of the slush
Is our modern idea of fittingness
Taken to the batting cage

For a little meeting
As the catamaran the size of my affection
Stop staring
Lowers its sail and comes hard by
Not a vocabulary I've mastered.

I do know that cutting mustard
Has something to do with military inspection,
And when it comes down to it,
I'd rather read late Ashbery.
I hope that doesn't disqualify me.