Friday, April 2, 2010


Yesterday's bright billowing clouds gave way to grey flannel skies.
A perfect Watteau or Frangonard canvas of the pastoral pursuits
looking up the skirts of the beribboned middle class—
morphing into the stark industrial duende of deChirico or Miro.
No chance of rainbows, or atmospheric haze.
A young hood practices dragstripping up the street,
that peculiar hissing waltz of rain and tire and iron road
chases the revving engine, boombox pounding back
a lush tropical rhythm of drums and cannibal instincts.
Weeping cherry trees in antebellum skirts sway in the breeze.
An airplane howls a doppleganger of loneliness in overcast skies.
An alarm jangles like an old school telephone. No one home.
The fan palm clatters and waves to the sky,
whether in greeting or farewell, I can't tell,
but the cat on my lap has tucked himself in for the duration.


April PAD—Water

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