Poem of the Month
I put the sign in the window:
Everything’s For Sale.
All aisles must be cleared,
every shelf must be emptied,
I’ve never stood opposite the Mona Lisa.
I’ve never heard the euphoria of Ode to Joy
or the bloom of Vivaldi’s “Spring.”
I’ve been reading the sad script of our lives
in the morning paper and don’t much care for
the current draft, which churns on and on,
the bloody plot repeating itself over and over,
Southerners have a taste for nostalgia.
It doesn’t take more than a balmy breeze
to carry them back to some old house
and a younger face, a distant voice
or a kiss they never washed away.
No veil of mist to hide your face,
tonight I am the fog at your feet.
We know each other well, sister,
if not always by familiar light,
unmistakable by alibi.
Behind me, California sleeps,
the toast barely up in Albuquerque,
the coffee lukewarm in Omaha,
Detroit already revealed for
everything it will never be.