Head

Z. is asleep
Z. is sleeping
   soft on his Indian-
   and-blue-eyes face,
   bald as his Head,
   bald and personable
   as his one-and-truly prick.
Z. is atoned.
Z. is stoned.
Z. is in his 10th Step,
   exactly
   where he started.
Z. is fortunate,
   though not a son
   anymore.
Z. takes lewd
   suggestions
   with little blinks
   of his everlasting
   eyelashes.
Z. enters nirvana,
   not nervous,
   not envious
   of nervosa,
   not tanked.
Z. is about right.
Z. eats queens' greens
   for a side to his
   acorn squash
   and pork belly.
Z. misses Miss Ann.