Portraits VI

it’s just like a coffin’s
inside when you die,
pretentious and
shiny and
not too wide
             dear god

there’s a portrait
over the door very notable of
the sultan’s nose pullable and rosy
flanked by the scrumptious magdalene
of whoisit and madame
something by gainsborough
                          just the playthings
                          for dust   n’es-ce pas

   effendi drifts between
   tables like an old leaf
   between toadstools
he is the cheerfulest of men
   his peaked head smoulders
   like a new turd in April
   his legs are brittle and small
   his feet large and fragile
his queer hands twitter before him,like foolish
   butterflies
he is the most courteous of men

should you remark the walls have been repapered

he will nod
           like buddha
           or answer modestly
i am dying

so let us come in together and
drink coffee covered with froth
half-mud
and not too
sweet?