on Mother's Day, tortilla chips
in the microwave and varicose veins,
writing this poem about the
neighbor kid piping rap so loud
that the daffodils tremble.
So this is the new sublime,
two-stroke snowblowers choking
out the winter gas -- look,
there's a crow in the bird bath
retching the sweet port from
last night's roadkill soiree,
and the morning paper's flush
with photographs of some
gray-bearded homeless man
wrapped in a blanket and
clutching remote controls
as if he ruled the world from
his kingdom of fear. The day
dies not with a bullet
to the brain but a pot
of blood-colored flowers
and a greeting card of
lavender kittens sporting
sparkling tiaras, then
reading the obits while
gnoshing a pecan log,
scanning the columns for
someone you know
all too well.
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