Signor Ferrari grants letters of transit
just like a famous poet,
all you gotta do is screw him,
his eyes heavy as the moon
ogle Ilsa from breasts to ankles,
his hand a paperweight on hers.
Little worms live on his suit,
living in a cave
only a used-car salesman is worse.
Rick annihilates each lip
on Ilsa’s thighs,
a train crashes in a fez.
So many things could be had
if we could only have them,
the scalp of Paris in an American’s pocket.
A million soldiers die
and they are all mourned.
Sunset is always dark around the edges.