The Reckoning

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.