Zebra Poem by Paul Vangelisti

My zebra has seen another generation
of pseudonyms thumb that old serpentin
the name of progressor the next Madonna.
Zesty a place as any,
he admits, to poke a golden ring or pistol.
Wouldn't be from out of town? says I.
No, my zebra says, I'm a stranger here myself,
lazy enough to memorize the streets,
aspirin and feminine, and even those
with too many commas,
whose angels wouldn't mind a steeple
or two to straighten up or fly right,
until they were wings enough to squawk
and blind misery, historical or not.
So how, says I, beat the apparatus
of impossibile tenderness and jazz,
the dead notwithstanding?
Your sentences could be more consistent,
says my zebra, finishing off a zero,
or tolerant of zealous voices.
Else there's always guilt and piety
to once again make us realize
there are millions and millions of ordinary people,
adds my zebra, with a listening ear or helping hand,
reaping the odds on the simple life.