One man smelled like roses – no, not him,
the other one with the green eyes,
always building his scale model of white-washed tombs.
“Flamboyant decay,” he’d say, as if that explained everything.
No, the raincoat that made us so sad back then
inspires boredom and nausea now.
“Go back! Go back to your oceans
with their prophet-of-doom hairstyles,
your seven seas like a pair of soiled pants.
The rest of us, we want to be clean.”