One sees, from the beginning,

     where this book

is going: life’s a game

     and nothing but,

so grab your (corked) bat

and swing for the fences,

     round the bases

while waving at the round-mouthed

     faces, touch home

and know, no matter what,

your score won’t matter more

     than the post-game

party’s post-party lull, the boring

     stars not half

so engrossing as the last

tumbler of rum. The real

     flub when you

claim none of this is

     fair is thinking

fair is something to think:

that benchmark was never there—

     no league rules,

no umpire: only palace intrigue

     during the final

years of a pointless empire.