If they could speak, they would
mumble;

they would stumble
and stammer like

Demosthenes’ pebbles,
in an attempt to spit

out, between grout
and loose gneiss, How

’bout those Mets, or
Give us a kiss.

On nights when they’re twitchy,
they might reach for a shot

of the warm, raw, amber-
lit solace

of unblended whisky,
while on days when

they’re dizzy
with business, they hum.

No one reveres them
and they prefer no

one does; would have
their existence

iconoclastic and
stolidly

lyric,
swaddled in rag cloth

or plastic or burlap
or any loose fabric

resigned
to abuse, kept within

reach in the clancular
backs of roll-top desk drawers,

or tossed like white-
hot potatoes

down crepuscular
stairs

of irregular cellars.