Memory played Southbound
As I drove north on I-75.
Dreaming of nothing in particular.
Almost seventy degrees
On a twenty-third of February.
The picture window of my
Apartment wide open and
The sheer white curtain plays
Along lightly to the musings
Of the outdoors.
Propped up on the couch.
And writing things in open
Secret like the sun shining
Behind the overcast world outside.
This feeling is like a morning fog.
Slowly but quickly evaporating
Into a dream I cannot quite remember.
And in Februarys yet to come I
Will wonder when this uncommon
Respite will again appear
But until then, in this ephemerality,
It is the carelessness of a
Summer holiday as a creed.
Newspapers worldwide reported how
They went out in the streets,
A drunken orgy high on chocolate
Breaking bottles of cheap red
Wine and storming out of
Women ripping off Victoria’s
Secrets like a wild animal
Rummaging through a campsite
Men whose exhalations of relief
Rivaled the winds of Katrina.
How Cupid’s blood cried red when
He was murdered with his own
Bow and arrow, that he’d fallen as
Ungracefully from above as had
Lucifer, that they had grabbed his
Body and dragged it through every
Town center until everyone had
Seen the entangled mass first hand.
But they went too far when they
Lit roses afire like torches, for
Roses belong to God’s creation.
And so he wept to extinguish the hate.
17 February 2007