This Blanket is ironically white:
It covers me as I drink my coffee;
As I write my words to God;
As I strum that lovely guitar
(The one you tuned with elegant,
Green-stained hands
That smelled ironically of ivory
And of earth);
As I try to go about my dreaming.

It does not dirty, though smeared;
It does not stink, though rotting;
It does not warm, though a blanket.

Its winter white shade illuminates the air
Like a shocking flashlight in the dark--
I can see it through walls and ceilings,
And I always know where it's been.

This blanket is so ironically white,
Though dastardly things go on beneath it.
It shivers in the night
And wants to be dark, as it feels.

It knows its irony
And embraces its fate like a champion.
But underneath, it smells like sex,
It tastes like quarts of vodka,
And it sounds like the reviling of a Corinthian.