We Could Be in Prague... Or in a Tiny Vienna Graveyard
Looking at travel brochures at the feed and farm supplies store,
we fabricate and fabulate: light sinks green through the branches
of scraggly, stunted pines... drops from stone ledge to slate roofs.
A throaty girl sings of twitchy-dream night. The yellow bones of a poet
dance with a pillow held tight to a rib cage. A euphoric Irish
tourist girl with silver hoop earrings, rose-pink cheeks,
kisses a moonlit statue of a horseman. Oh... waxy time.
We could be in potato-colored envelopes,
self-mailed from the American West,
opened by a sketchy jurist in Prague or Vienna,
They're not bearable... those Yanks in cowboy hats.
We could be tossed out the jurist's window to the street,
picked up by a blonde in cut-offs and see-through blouse
on her way to a graveyard fashion shoot to illustrate
the salt sandwich the poor suffer to swallow
as bankers make a run for it... all the way
to boutiques offering thick leather winter jackets.
We could be what we are, shoppers for dog kibble,
a birthday card for a friend, spools of electric fence wire,
six-packs of sugary diabetes-coming-soon soda pop.
We could be on fire... as we were decades ago.
We could shake each other under a flaring sun,
treat ourselves to bottled oranges in light syrup
We could lie, roll our shopping cart, and say,
The people who eat Tuna Helper probably like it.