
can go to a fish fry or/
wait for your uncle.
The more beer
you drink,
the more genius
my art
becomes.
When you’re surrounded/
by nature, feeling the flow/
of life, sad happens.
Too late I moved toward
The sliding glass door
Where you would have seen my shadow
And veered away.
Instead:
Thunk.
“Oh no nonono!”
I cry
and reach for you,
fallen,
as your glowing tail feathers
fan out wide
in a blaze of color,
then close as tight
as your dainty feet,
curled.
You are still warm
as I hold you,
tiny,
in the palm of my hand.
Tears well up
as I wait,
hoping.
But your eyes stay open,
fixed and dilated,
and even as I hold you,
admiring your bright gold feathers
and the tiny streaks of red on your breast
that I’ve never noticed before,
you grow cold in my hand.
I place you
tenderly,
at the base of the daffodils
which mimic your radiant glory,
but which,
like you,
are starting to fade away.
Executive jets
To desert
desserts
mean nichts to her.
Instead,
gazebo waltzes
and
rolling down hills
feed her soul
and
let her fantasies
take flight.
I once held her close,/
swayed gently. I could have grabbed/
there; glad I didn’t.
Yawp.
Feel.
Find
your divine
center,
You.
Yup.
Yawp.
Then do.
I feel
a great deal
of melancholy
folly
going on.
It’s not fun.
But I’ll face the setting sun
and again soulfully yawp
like Uncle Walt
Whitman.
Carpe Diem.