they told me there's an airport
waiting to be named after you;
those cognoscenti at the dinner parties
with their glittering earlobes.
word is a public library's in store;
at the very least a city park bench.
they get their drinks mixed up
and cause a fuss and rumpus.
maybe just a re-named street
or out-of-the-way cul-de-sac alley.
the air is liquid lavender and the breeze
like emeralds tuned to a fine sheen
by a sudden summer shower
out on the Calacatta balcony.
your face on a postage stamp
or a boot-lick up the a-hole:
pour out the Dom Perignon until
there's a river named after you.
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