I LOVE MY NEIGHBORS BUT HATE WHEN THEY BARBEQUE (RADIO EDIT)
POLKA FOR EIGHT FREAKING HOURS,
my daughter cries out as she cowers,
taste in this music is not ours.
Polka for eight freaking hours.
Polka for eight freaking hours,
for no other channel he scours.
Change the station? I lack the powers.
Polka for eight freaking hours.
Polka for eight freaking hours,
the accordion groans betwixt towers,
the tuba is killing my flowers.
Polka for eight freaking hours.
Polka for eight freaking hours,
no response to my stares and glowers,
the forecast says sadly no showers.
POLKA FOR EIGHT FREAKING HOURS.
—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
Tribute to Musicians
__________
Miseong Kong: “I once lived to play classical guitar to the best of my ability, to the scrutiny of the masters, and that life produced some beautiful sounds but sacrificed my love of the guitar. Then I tried living to take small moments of life into poetry and that life produced some beautiful poetry but sacrificed too many small moments. Prompt poetry sacrifices the joy of freedom and, of all joys, maybe that is the easiest to let go? Let then the music flow in response, as words, constrained.”
