Victoria Dalkey
Charmin’ Billy
I don’t know where to put the beat-up table
I can’t part with because my father painted it.
Can’t find the right place for this half-moon
with three squat legs joined by pegs
something out of a tale about a girl
held prisoner by a dwarf, forced to spin
straw into gold, or the one about the princess
locked in a tower until she let her hair down.
Daddy was handsome as a prince that day whistling
Can she bake a cherry pie Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
as he covered the table with a green
dark as the deepest pines in the forest
long before I guess his real name.