Memorial Day 2018
I want to be a Victorian grain sack pouf when I grow up,
but after eighty years I’ve lost my confidence,
especially now I notice the Catskills have disappeared
in a memorial mist and the restless Hudson is standing still
in a steady downpour of politics. The flag has blown a gromet
and streams like Isadora Duncan’s scarf. My ambition
to seat grand heinies fades into the realization
there is no time to grow up — that was a sales pitch
by parents up to their own good, not mine or anybody’s
who could look me in the eye. I had that kind of look
even in the crib that says, Who the fuck are you,
and I actually met a few who were unafraid to say
and understood my yearning to be preposterous things
that wouldn’t get in the way of thinking straight.
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