The Future Seemed Chandelier-Spectacular
Morning comes at you
like a sloganeering nun
in a Clint Eastwood movie...
desert radio jangle,
some
furniture festival in town.
You carry all the ephemera
of seventy years...
smeared postcard postscripts.
Pockmarked moon through squinty eyes,
Peaches-the-Wolfhound wants to know:
when does she get the lapis-blue
birthday present leather collar?
On a grand scale of gnarled apple tree
to gloss-marble of gunfighter boot hill,
the flake-decay centerpiece would be
a Bat Masterson toupee up for auction.