To Pull the Handle Again

I hold a torch of polyamorous flowers to the white noon sky
And wait for night.
In no particular order I will feast on the delicacies of rejection.
Matchbooks with my phone number litter waxy pink purses,

Velour pockets, and mothball scarves, waiting
On the coat-racks in every bar, in every town.
My descent of unmatched omnipotence
Garners few victories, though

Without such disproportionate yang
The few earnings would mean so little.
The failure sinks in, and like an untended
Fishing pole, high-tails to the end of its line,

Drops like all great shame should with an anvil
Of determination, brings that body full of hooks
To the warm blue deep, and leaves me hovering
Like some fatted up God

Above the choppy waters,
Bait in hand, wet suit shimmering,
Galoshes squeaking with the gulls
About all this swell chance.