Classic Poem

Perhaps I need a normaliser.
Would you like one? Now?
The moods induced
by a drunken sun
thumping the rooftops
pose questions too abstruse,
odd friend, for my gentle ears.
I just amble along sideways,
pretending not to notice.
Perhaps I need to be in orbit,
or in the obit pages — though
only in a supporting role,
like sole conniving
heir to a vast fortune
telling racket. First this,
then that. Reporters flopping
about in my wake, can you hear
what I’m dictating to you? It was all
very exciting people talked about
for weeks, though they all had
sons and daughters. First
these, then those.