Ebb Tide

He looks sort of sweet, smiling,

Maybe smirking, to himself,

This asemic, visual,

Dada performance poet,

Self-described, standing in front

Of a seated audience

In a clean, warmly lit room,

One window on blue evening,

Coiffeur shop across the street,

The wigs displayed on egg heads

Like a second audience.

His own hair and beard close-cropped,

Dressed in a white peasant smock

Over a floor-length green skirt,

He holds three sheets of paper,

Which it looks like he’s shuffling,

Probably having read one,

About to read another.

It’s all pleasantly tranquil,

The negation of values now,

Across from the brightly lit

Wigs on a street in Milan.