His Attributes

by Brett Rutherford

The lethargy of the crocodile,
the wit
     of a crouching tarantula,
the gait of one
who ambles about on pseuodpods,
the judgment of a slug,
the manners
    of an offended Portuguese
          Man of War,

the courting style
     of a barging ram,
the cleanliness
     of a caged ape

the fragrance
     of the unburied dead,
the honor
     of the twice-impeached,

the tiny hands
     no longer finding
          the shrunken

member. A fondness
     for boxes and all
          the things within them,

an eye that gleams
     blackmail, another
          outlining the shape
of a breast, or up the line
     from ankle to skirt,

a pouty lip, words
     on the tongue-tip, spewn
out, spent bullets
     of scandal and calumny.

Come, rally round.
Buses for followers.
For the rest,
     boxcars.