Though bloweth smoke, and often
from Archambeau’s mouth. In truth. Yet this:
did actual happen, did. While he sat
in smell of riverfunk and barbecue, by
the rank cold sunspiked Mississip.
In his black jeans black, his jacket too.
To read: of his big black book. Until.
The griz-beard bicycist sallies up, Quix-ote, and old,
and white. His tattered shirt, his glasses horned,
and tonsure shorn and tight
about the ears. Spakes he: “you been
a pree-acher all your life, or just get stuck with it
later?”  And underbreath while stoppeth he
(his stare!) was heard, or thought-I-heard: “so kiss
my ass, that’s what you are.” And pedaled he away.