Birthday Poem

This is a wax. Born a couch, I’ll take a finger for every
time you light a match. Quit. Beery,
I grip the sides of the circus, feed bears
beer. Badness, badness. The world board turns
for us: we don’t, we dip. Really nice. Alone in his room
with Mr. Fox. I have never seen it. A grinning
white, a flapping orange. Your greeting
graffitied on missles. And hit my button.
Mountains sleep in frozen gin, too merry
for me. Hand gap is a multiply, where you can’t weep.
So I see you. You’re awake.