FOR THE SEVENTIES

I will knit me
a new suit of armor
as soon as I find
enough barbed wire.

My suit made out of
telephone wire has gone
soft in the head.
The knees are threadbare.

My voice has lost
its ring. My tongue
is lagging. Gums need
stitches. I swallowed
the bone prop I learned
to speak with.

And the elephant gloves
that covered my hands
have turned to trunks
where I search out
the coins to cover my eyes.