The Good Life

You know it's a good life
when the bar bell rings time
pitch perfect into the orange fug
as you drown your last cup
with Ferod's young daughter

oh, sweet blackish night
when the silver road runs like snake
tracks between high hedges
you tread the journey your
arm a bind round Jenny's back

your tongue tasting the words
loosed by fire and the dead stars
to a gravelly song, she listens
with almost a half heart
two steps to your one, amble on

with the clock still ticking in her
father's house, the owl fanning
the dark breeze at your back
as you lift her to the five barred gate
a head framed by the big old moon

and artificial curls, watch her fingers
flip buttons from their button holes
the shape of children's flowers
see her shoulders bare to the bold night
you know it's a good life

when the glum toad croaks from the
wet grass and the hem of Jenny's dress
is bunched tight in your hand
the size of the world
the texture of everything.