Portrait of Thoth at the Weeping Hour of 4:00am

The night swirled around the emperor’s hut
Wherein his majesty sat next to a garden chair–
On his plastic throne, counting the rooks and crows
That, one by one, had pecked out the hearts
From his flock of sheep. A tear scuttled down
From the third eye to his left cheek like a mini-
ature beetle or cockroach, parachutting
Into the macraroni salad and cold slaw,
Which he had left to dry on the floor.
He bent over the ochre chest droors of himself,
And began to whistle a childish lullaby
For his shadow to trot back from the graveyard,
Which was his front yard, where the half dollar
Of the pool-chalked moon, at 4:45, was beginning
To set within its cosmic slot, signaling some end was near.