The Sense of Unwashed Shanks as Proust's Cake

In long-handles I think I might resemble him,

Sweetheart. Streak my hair yellow as well as gray

And claw my beard fully to whiskers, then I

Could say Uncle George! surprizing myself

In the goddam mirror, just as the odd thought

Of him, after it must be twenty years or

More, surprized me last night, caught me unawares.

Well it filled me with glee. Bull joy. Enter

The crammed pigeonholes of time's musty desk

Is a small death compared to real felark

Of Uncle George's rooms. Hairs, real long ones,

As from a closet brush, Oz Lion's bad cough,

Were braided up his sofa-arms in tufts,

Drying like drowned horses' manes. But not quite dry.

Sweetheart, a pound of okra filled his seat,

I swear it. When, therefore, my great-aunt's

Whisper, beating away the mottled air

Like a countrywoman's broom, failing

At that, as the fainted July sun, flicking

And flicking itself against the sticky green-

Black candy windows of George's shack,

Said Why he hasn't had a bath since Mamie died,

Was unavailed, because he was deaf, and

He was unwashed, I felt, sweetheart, such love

For that old unwashed man, it near to tore

My head off, and shit in my neck. Saint George.

We sense sanctity how late. Your remark

Brought it back to me last night. When you said

You need a bath. When you said I smell your taint.

- Ackermans

©1977 AL ACKERMAN

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UPDATED: MAR 2007