Ophelia puked hourly dawn till dusk,
retching mucous slobber, then spewing air.
Scum that I am, I never stopped thinking
what a beauty: small Icelandic hooters,
Femme d’Bumpers, on whom all fun depends.
Woman’s the car, man the hood ornament.
She lay there so sick she wasn’t human,
more an engine blowing jello gaskets.
Yet, because of her Helen of Troy throat
and Cleopatra eyes, the world still turned
because puking beauties are still beauties
and keep on moving us. They’re still our Porsche,
our cop car, hearse, ambulance, and fire truck.
We couldn’t cool her down. She was our bus,
she was our red-faced unicyclist
hauling us all. The earth her wheel, she lay
there wretching us all through the Pearly Gates.