Wednesday, December 26, 2012

The Price of Cheerful



The Price of Cheerful

January clouds arrive a week early,
linen-lipped... ready
to soak-up the blood
on mileage markers.

Rubber swords and hula hoops:
you are too old to be a tricked dog.

Also: no one remembers
ahead of time
being lost in one's own basement.

Snow... and you blow your nose
into an anguish handkerchief,
not yet bundled homeward
in funeral rags.

Which brings us to stories
of rust-stained tubs
in studio apartments
for those who've rolled
at least one SUV.

January clouds say,
I tried.  I waited for you.

Later... silence comes
after a huge flat screen TV
flutters off a wall
like a hyper-sonic butterfly.

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