Is not a clown face
Is not a coat of arms
Is not a pulpy discharge
A slight turn of the head reveals
What it is for footsteps in the snow
An ordeal
A convergence of speech patterns
A forty pound pair of suspenders
When the new year rolls around
And the old one is packed away
Like so many flotation devices
Like vinyl, heat sealed end to end
Like ducks and whales and giant donuts
We drink the sad potion of leeway
And bend all fork tongs into fists
After the roads get cleared
And debris is washed away
The stripped down bone of the story
Looks a lot like the river Styx
Each gas station giving way to a fire hydrant
Giving way to a convenient store
Giving way to a whole lot of nothing;
Frozen in some Christmas train set
With the crossing bars permanently down
All the yellows so yellow
They will never be mistaken
For a path
Or a festivity
Or a neatly tied bow
But can make any route to a funeral
Seem like an eternity
Thinking about all the ways to get there
Besides this one
--
01.03.11
Comments
Thanks for hopping back on for the ride...