Denmark (or On the Death of John Updike)

I was only twelve when Johnny Updike had his way with me.
Reading Couples secretly,
piano lessons through,
even then I knew
Denmark was rotting in the pocket of Connecticut.

Sifting through pretty decay,
I lay hands on the sticky thoughts of the academic prince
catch hold of his reason
peel its thick skin and carve bitter words:
buying black babies does not guarantee redemption.

Much as he tries to bathe clean in white sand
he is still haunted by the slap of bare feet in the A&P
and the false promise of tight denim will, ultimately, undo him.

Solace will not be rushed
but comes at last,  extending its welcome
as he greets the poisoned tip.

                                                                                                                       2/2/11