Carrying The Can
I’m ready to carry the can.
Can do. The slop-bucket, the bed-pan,
the spittoon. The dead wait
for the clanking of my can.
Carrying. The can-can. I do it
for kicks, for the canned applause:
open the doors, here comes my can.
Full to the brim. There’s a hole
in my can, dear Gordon, dear
Gordon. But I will carry on
with my can. And its handle
in my canny fingers. And when it is
full, will I lift it, and show you
how to extract a rabbit, still
in its pyjamas, from my can? Carried.