April 6, 20211973
If spring is the season of beginnings,
then autumn’s the shotgun wedding,
though the shotgun is seldom needed
in these parts anymore. The idea
of the thing is as loaded as the thing
itself. Think powder blue tuxedo,
bride slightly showing, January baby.
It’s not their fault; the whole decade
was a mistake. Not the chalkboard
but the fingernails. The morning
after the night they’ll never remember.
All that polyester, all those sand paper
leisure suits—all the Quaaludes
make sense now. Forget about words
like turmoil that try to be too much
about life; they’re not nearly enough.
The word alone won’t burn you.
First yell Fire, then run out into the snow.
from #23 - Summer 2005