Revise the nifty ending,
don't shed tears for those caught in the wringer
as laud we the gods
and others tuned to advantage
if only gray like the sky
or the curtains, the bedsheets.
This town is worth believing in,
tastes of roast chicken and spinach,
the hops at the party brimming over.
If you're not inclined to judgment
clasp her warm body, freshly bathed,
say it went down smooth and kept going.
We've no undertaking better, no courts
where piebald donkeys may bleat of peace
or deliberating conjurors debate DNA.
“This likes me not.”
And with that he flung his best raygun
into the deep lake, happy as a girl
gone a-Maying, and brightly lit
into the bargain. If you would claim
this voice, harbor no hopes, let
deeds speak for dreams when at last
the monstrous child of sleep awakes.
We've arranged ourselves for leaving
and see in the gleam of the cat's eye
reason enough. My, how fast
you've grown, how soon you overtake
your belated master, he still tending
the stunted eggplants and tomatoes,
hoping the spate of frost will depart
leaving his plot green as before.
Flying overhead come armed drones,
perhaps, but even if so, no charges accrue
and the dining room's dark wainscoting
shines with polish. The feast's ready,
there may even be a bake sale,
though many are lacking
and dry throats thirst
for what one would never say
to her or to anyone else,
the Côtes du Rhône notwithstanding.
We've gathered together once again.
Let there be some charm in that.
©Donald Brown 2010/2013