Gilbert Sorrentino
CROOl TIME
I ask dim questions of California friends.
That foreign sun in which the madmen grow.
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Jesus the streaked and dirty panes.
Can it be sixteen years? Where and how?
Bald heads ring the golden bay.
That green water and the mindless young.
The sleet angled with enormous cruelty.
Trembling hands touch the hotel windowsill.
The green that kills the heart in winter.
Drunk a sailor meets his drunken father.
Anything more than cheap wine by the jug?
Hey kid you look kind of familiar!
