Young Willi Miracle
Silver-vizored, gauntleted
Roaring down the freeway
The wind in his nose and his throat
High-buckled to his neck and ox-leather overcoat
Stars at his elbows
Black lighting his hair
Willi at the truckstop
Drinking beer with Pachelbel
Back losers eacy way
Has taken no lessons from life
Sharp-bladed in his pocket a pearlhandled flick-knife
Knows where it’s leading
Old Pachelbel’s stare
Pach’s got a rooming-house
Winters in Alassio
Willi offers to stay
They’ll work something out overnight
Willi eyes the antiques, the silver in the lamplight
Pillow in his face
He’s strong as a bear
Wily old Pachelbel
Likes them naked, young and dead
Hauls him down the stairway
Throws him in the pit with the rest
There are sperm in his mouth and cigar-burns on his chest
The pearhandled knife
Lies under a chair
Six or eight weeks later
Pack’s a new young visitor
Thinks that it’s his birthday
Tries the ox-leather coat for size
Willi moves in the cement, opens lime-blinded eyes
Sighs from the cellar
Beware, or beware!