Camel King's South Bronx Sermonette
by Stephen D. Gross

A sky the color of battered pewter
becomes a She Wolf about to relieve herself
squatting heavily over the South Bronx, the bitch scratches
reopens a ragged wound
through which I peer past antennae forests
Howard Johnson neon puddling across Southern Boulevard -
and into the Zoo where, on his customized turf
stands the Camel King
Heavily lashed eyes, brimful of bittersweet disdain
(he’s read nothing but Mencken since Miles died)
he ruminates, sniffs at the pair
standing before him - Sylvia and Blanche
frosted cuetips bobbing on chicken necks
Syl resplendent in white beaded faux-cashmere,
creamy as a faux-baby’s ass
taunting Blanche with barbs citing pre-med grandkids (Sheldon and Sharma)
Blanche deftly countering with tragic tales
of Sidney’s polyp-ravaged colon,
followed by an aging niece’s miscarriage
Both ignoring the Camel King in mottled, matted majesty
busily working his double-chaw of Redman, head filled with opium dreams
of sinuous dunes, distant horns, dying desert embers
Sylvia stands transfixed, locked onto
the shred of slaw snagged on Blanche’s partial
watching its dance, its rise and fall
Pigeons digging mites from their barbules
freeze as the King snorts, shifts his weight
Expectantly they watch - they know what’s coming
Like warm, lazy surf the soft camelopard lips curl,
rolling into position they load, arch and fire
The tarry mucilage splats heavily
a splash of toxic rain above Sylvia’s breast
catching her in mid “Gevalt!” spider leg tendrils creep inkily
'round her oozing hips, her multiple chins, her thin tight lips
Slackjawed, with dinnerplate eyes
mouth opening, closing, grouper-like, so silent
Embarrassed, the pigeons hide their heads and sniggle
All aglow, radiant, Blanche is secretly amused
Unburdened now, the Camel King returns to his smoky visions
of Lester, Miles, Lee, Clifford and the desert Sun
and the ocean of heatwaves forever pulsing
over his sweet Mama’s grave