Big-haired backyard barbecuers
dance feverishly
in yellowing collages of pics . . .
zigzag through the neighborhood
trafficking in incidentals . . .
fingers . . . keyboarding songs
swollen in possibility . . .
sheer happenstance
and garage band coloratura . . .
Recall the duct tape
its iterations
when what to my wondrous eyes should appear
cascades of ganglia
interspersed with large drops of rain . . .
This will take some explaining . . .
Is this the winter . . . of our malcontent? . . .
The song and dance continues . . .
Dogs and ponies celebrate
proof . . . of existence
logging roads and junkyards
vying for a place in the annals
of small town etiquette
and independent films . . .
Of course, you can do it! . . .
Well, there's always a first time
(don't deny it) . . .
but with ancient history snapping at our heels
it feels new . . . as if Scene 1 resurfaced . . .
in REM sleep . . .
How many years ago was that, again? . . .
Furniture music
the invasion of smart devices . . .
takeaways thrown away . . .
One could fashion an excuse (I suppose)
architectural embellishments
pock-marked with red anthills
kicking back with a beer
at the corner pub
the ongoing conversations
finessing flirtations
as if the countdown had begun
and locals had taken to the high ground
fearing floods
triglycerides
broken promises
from others earmarked for their contributions
to adult coloring books . . .
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| Sarah Moon |