—after e.e. cummings

I like forty-five, like as in why
a necktie the way it hangs;
the half-mast of a pair of trousers,
end-signs into a world of girls
and boys, a small-handed look
surprised by an unspeakable face
addressing the time of the world
with a what in the lumps of its clothes—

the unbelievable warts of all of it,

and oddity in tweeted speeches
even as the base comes over
starting fresh, four maybe more.
I like forty-five. I like his hows.

And, possibly, I like the idea of you
together with all of your friends
under him so quite few.

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