Cakewalking kills idleness (reprise)

A slight alteration of an old favorite.

One jagged rock hits the head of Sir Buenos Aries.
BA feels a shock
sips a packet of tea. Let us see whose hand is at work.
Strolling along the avenue
past a construction site could be deadly; easy disposal.

Cakewalk into the foundation: lost magnifying glass, old phone number (EV9-4999), #3.5 pencil, white conté crayon, small bones of a hamster, old soda bottle, fifty-two copies of Saturday Evening Post, religious and socialist pamphlets, grey overalls, many bottle caps and cigarette butts.

Idly passing the stash of fortunes, Sir BA is inquisitor, decider and murder
With hippy-strands of corduroy and acrylic.
Takes a handful of cement and shot-puts a cloud towards
aluminum siding separating site from street.
The demarcation slams a hard B flat. No one is around. Strike a match on his sole, say hello to Chesterfield.

Cakewalk back to the street: more butts and caps, same Saturday Evening Posts (take a Rockwell-gander), old wigs (brunettes, reds and blondes) one black one purple moustache, rusty lunchbox, discarded Eggo box, old sardine tins reflecting bending setting-red rays, lampshades, a box marked “bric-a-brac,” a small figure of a ninja, sixty-nine pieces of sheetrock, forty-eight sheets of sandpaper various grits, large barrels of water, starling and sparrow baths.

Mysterious hands exhaust the inquisitive, time to retire.
Sir Buenos Aries only drinks cocktails at café tables. Entranced
in the rays of the disappearing sun, cakewalking only delays inevitable inebriation. Downs amaretto orange, preening at the polarized glass. He thought how good
he looks while walking.

One second of decision brings BA down Amsterdam
to the entrance of Bitter Drake’s Fine Spirits. He’d ponder selling juniper tincture
to the kids of a private school. For a while,
he’d feel both pain and relief for passing down the art of slow-death.

Cakewalking kills idleness.