Mendy, out in Massapequa,
had something to say.
Out in Massapequa, Mendy,
put a callused, arthritic hand
in another smooth, dextrous
one, and placed it by the wall.
Mendy thought of the street-light,
Massapequa’s, and wondered why,
today, it shone different, altered
enough, binding him to understand
that he now had something to say.
Mendy, out in Massapequa, had
something to say.
Having something to say out
in Massapequa was an alright state
to obtain. Not usual for Mendy, not
unusual for a one like Mendy to obtain.
It pushed him into joy, this fact.
A newborn fact that he, now out in
Massapequa, Mendy,
had something to say.
Mendy, out in Massapequa,
grown almost pregnant with
something to say, grappled
with all he had not said.
He heard a variety of frequencies,
the settling of tones; Mendy,
considered his previous attack, out in
Massapequa, and his longtime friend.
Would he, likewise out here, out in
Massapequa, have something to say?