I Have Gone To Seek A Wife

This checklisting in the Beauty Bar,
untonic-ed, untwined, by Squawker-Boy
with elusive rainbow patch, Lucky 
Plane Man in moody-issue boots,
these Lucite, deft, stick-and-move breathers,
thinking it's okay to hover
are really young generals besting us
with perpetual ask and rocketry,
staving off views of  tiger-gripped sunsets,
bowls of clear soup in the clear lake
of evening, which itself is a vague alarm
of harp walking forward--

		     --all done in search
of a  sitcommed girl, the kind most unlikely to
flag or disable, so that seconds
after minking her one can leave 
relatively unharmed, disguised 
as a jug of purple flowers repeating,
as the lonely ingrate at her neck,
as the indiscernible tug of her windowside
petunia, for water.