I found my muster station, sir.
My skin is patent leather.
The tourists are recidivists.
This calm is earthquake weather.

I’ve used up all the mulligans.
I’d kill to share a vice.
The youngster reads a yellowed Oui.
The socialite has lice.

The Europe trip I finally took
was rash and Polaroid,
was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam.
And I cannot avoid

the end: I will not die in Paris,
won’t rest for good behind
a painted mausoleum door.
The purser will not find

me mummified beneath your tulle,
and Paris will not burn.
Today is Thursday, so I’ll die.
Come help me pick my urn.

More Poems by Randall Mann