How often this frivolity?
This bluntness of perception?
Compared to what?
Just the other day, we were up, up, and away.
Our eyeballs free of regrets.
The breeze through the open window (finally).
The discord quieted.
Trees resonating.
Nothing foreshadowed
yet the evanescence of the moment with its free passes
to the matinee of your choice at the Bijou.
Here the limo awaits with the patience of a koan.
The driver unruffled.
Dare you pass?
Later, with the grocery shopping behind us
a quick jaunt around the lake
(which wasn't there yesterday)
the well-oiled machine and all that
out of hock, out of doors, out.
Poring over reams of paper stockpiled on the rolltop.
The dusty charm of leather
and you with your amplitude
whispering through the moonlit eve
mourning doves having flown the nest.
How could they not?
So many newscasts bubbling past.
So many identity thieves lurking.
Are you sure you are who you think you are?
The roadways befuddled.
A class action suit ready to take you to the cleaners.
Is there anyone at your beck and call?
Is there anyone you can call?
Where is it written?
The final quarter ticking down.
The prize vintage uncorked.
A riff coloring the enigma
floating balloon-like over a distant hamlet -
a woman in white, a small boy, a girl, a small dog.
Where did all these lawn chairs come from?
And who at last is responsible for this moratorium?
This quiver of insanity?
This obliviousness?
The workaday as always waiting around the bend in the river
engaged by the same old same old
sloughed off while running after the runaway train.
Cable streaming with life.
Finger-licking goodness edging out the competition.
Birds of all feathers flocking.
Bike messengers weaving.
Traffic lights like cluster flies.
The edge of illusion with its quick fix
beguiling residents on their off-days
leaving them remixing covers.
The invisible pleasantly besotted.
The Dairy Queen in her opulence
and the nonchalance of cats
especially the super's
who comes and goes as she pleases (don't we all wish we could?)
counting her change
while inspecting trash cans for late night tête-à-têtes.
Why wait for the next four-star melodrama?
Why worry the convalescence?
The wingnuts?
Going to the dogs in a handbasket isn't out of the question.
Isn't beyond the realm of the usual.
So what, you say?
Far too many have gotten away with it
winsome though they were
without flinching (come to think of it)!
A right, a left, and it was out of the park.
Look at those cowpokes at the barre honing their plies.
Imagine!
The other state of Dakota
with it marvelous saplings
waiting to be embraced.
And who disguised as Clark Kent
in a double-breasted suit so yesterday?
A voiceover from your past reminds you
to pick up a quart of milk on the way home.
A spate of unemployed fact checkers awaits the starting gun
checking off their mealtime selections
while checking into detox units at the local Motel 6.
You have no messages.
No texts.
No tweets.
Nada.
And there's that voiceover again.
And here comes another lucrative deal.
Another leveraged buyout.
A garbage scow chuffs across a dingy harbor
then lapses into a hissy fit.
Such behavior will no longer be tolerated.
Butterflies caressing winter's dwindling sun.
A baby carriage with the brake on at a bake-off.
The Post with its stark reflection.
The checks cashed, the tollbooth looming.
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| Herve All |
