Do not ask me to look skyward—you grew up
In rooms with fitted carpets. I did not.
Nor did I read the tea leaves in my cup,
My eyes were peeled for vomit, turds and snot
In alleyways, guiding my shoeless feet
To safer ground. Oh, it’s easy to wax wise
Or emulate philosophy’s conceit
With bellies full of wine and star-strewn skies.
Mind you, a lapcat’s purr is bought too dear,
The product of some owner’s whips and bells—
Your cheerful sermons grate upon the ear
For those of us who trudge the lower hells...
So as you praise the moon, mind how you go,
A stone may stub your silver-sandalled toe!