The Wxxdy Poem by Morgan Michaels

Heaven, it's half past seven-
time to throw the covers off
the sun is shining through the blinds.
And- well, can you beat that-?

a tremendous wxxdy
sparking a sort
of festal
meditation. Why, then,

why so full, my son,
of criminal elan-
half bacchante
half Puritan;

detected Falstaff
dancing juego-putto, when
aren't you the happy
burden of men?

Where are you going, little man?
don't smirk-
you're not the only one.
What is your plan?

Where you come from don't ask me
heck, if I know
these things being largely
beyond our control,

brief,
and to shadows amounting
easily accounting
for that dream last night

where the wan moon wore
earrings pendanted
with diamonds dandling more
diamonds in a so-wide sky.

Nice work, I'd say
Wxxdy (for that's your name)
you are welcome in my home
anytime, by the way

for how so long a stay
'cuz though you wear me out,
I miss you when you're gone,
prodigal, you bum,

Welcome, welcome
wheree'er you're coming from
I admire your drive.
I am content when you arrive


'cuz for me you bear no shame.