A Poem for Gabriel

With that beauty every minute you spend away from your flesh
is a waste, I mean
Every idle stance is a waste, every movement
not dedicated to yourself
Makes you the victim of waste, I can’t stand it —

Hey! Do you have to be just that, just that, just
a dock worker in overalls
When your name recalls mad gods, when
your name is bronze and you also —

I mean do you HAVE, do you HAVE to be just that,
a nine-to-five worker in those goddamn overalls
when your body belongs in a gallery and you turn gold
in the crazy suit of Toronto —

Don’t, don’t wreck my poetry this way, I mean
I’ll take you out of this place
And personally put you in some kind of museum,
holding a torch or something —

I can’t stand this waste, I can’t stand this waste,
every day growing gold in a Toronto harbor,
gold and golder from nine to five, it’s too much
for me, for my poems, everything —

Does it have to be this awful waste . . . every day
getting on the ferry I watch you close the gates
and it’s like I see eagles even, and gold coins,
and hear trumpets sounding for you all over