WALKEN
Clad in threads as dark
as all the world's rooks,
with Dover scarp skin,
he lurked outside
the Lowenbrau Bierhall
one night in two-thousand.
I applauded his
considered embodiment
of The King of New York;
he rasped something akin
to gratitude, or disgust,
gave me nothing else.
Al least, he could've
smiled, laughed, hissed
like Sleepy Hollow's Hessian,
shot me in the bloody neck
with his weapon of choice.
LJ, December 2 2011.
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