Gigot

     He is a sentimental faerie,
your narrator—Gigot condescends—I feel
I know your mind in a delicate way,
     having read it. Must I worry
a man with your sensibilities will find our life
here frightening? I offered you a Quaalude.
No, then wine? For sake of temperance, as one
     outré declared,
things in moderation. I am obsessed by them,
Americans. Such porcine, pickled, lorn patriots
and such dissenters in your country.
I was in Chicago, 1970—he shouts—I poured
imported beer on your burning flags!
—pulling his collar, calming—in moderation,
     sobriety even, yes?