HAMLET OFF-STAGE: DON’T COUNTRY THIS SNAPPER
I don’t get into merging with nature.
Too big, buggy, messy, too anti-French,
too out-doorsy. So, when I cut the grass,
it’s to the nub. Rambeau de la Snapper
rides high, ten-horsepower blitzblade whirling,
the mindlessness more pleasant than even madness.
But once showered and shaved, then I’m Good Lord
Hambeau again, all parfumed and sweet-splashed,
the lisping, panty toast Ophelia loves.
I merge with nature about like Rousseau—
I’ll toot the flute out on the lake, then scoot
back in bed beside viney Ophelia,
the honeysuckle arms and Kudzu legs,
People Magazine’s “Country Celebrity”—
rose nipples, corn-silk muff, serpent slinky.
That’s as deep in nature’s lap as I get.
For us French fops, us greenery führers,
Le Country Club is country as we get,
out where the greens never need to be cut.
Their hair brushed by thousands of practice putts.
—from Rattle #17, Summer 2002
