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You’re carrying around some mood, name unknown,
in a pram. You’re not sure how to tend to it
or where to call or whom. As the mood sleeps uneasily,
your face is a dry tissue with a penciled frown.

Years go by like this, albeit without the pram.
You’re on your second marriage’s honeymoon, screaming
from a roller coaster four hundred feet high,
when your mood abruptly leaves you

a note and heads for Bir Tawil. With sordid
white shirttails, he plants a seed in the desert and calls
himself president. The UN won’t recognize him
until he comes forth with his rage.