Threnody for Sophia on the Last Day of Winter.
Great stuff here. All the trees are so tree-y. And that scraggly
cat is such a cat, crouched so baleful and orange
beneath the rear axle of my snow-and salt blistered car. My hope is
Sophia loved the whole world
despite the cynics, so I'll love everything too: frost-heaved
sidewalks and paint scabbing off the fire hydrants
and goofy Rapunzel turrets on the Victorian houses. I'll love
even the whoops-a-daisy scrimmage of my favorite decaying memories: Gee,
that one time I kissed Sophia sure zings me now!
Damn you, Too Late World! I wonder
if Sophia would've told me a Too Late World is much better than no
world at all and twenty-six-years-ago kisses
are still kisses even if recalled in a prospect of bird crap and
busted-up sidewalks traversed by gimpy
orange cats and the sun like God's own utility warming us all
higgledy-piggledy free of charge. Gone! Gone!
I used to cry
like a ghost hooting from the drains, dragging the basement with my
sinner's chains while counting up
the bones. What a mope! Now I sell myself on a fairy tale princess in
the brick Rapunzel turret of next door's decrepit Victorian pile.
Under the broken slates
she plays harpsichord or sings a Korean folk song and spins
burdocks into gold. She's a willing-to-forgive-almost-anything
princess, a princess who'd forgive all of her
Prince Charmings and whatever fools they turned out to be.