There was a bar in Wrigleyville that displayed a huge sign informing all that they proudly play classical music after every Cub game. Not true. The bar had a great juke box. The owner made the sign to help keep out the “suburban riff-raff.” His words.
Freight
It’s not the twilight
of memory
that worries me
or the foot speed
that pratfalls
at a canter
nor the Heave Ho
effort for so paltry
a pulmonary response
It’s that the degradation
isn’t singular
Damnit.
It’s shared
She can’t lie. I’d
testify.
But her eyes break faith.
I am the burden.
Her true
and well
loved
encumbrance.
Day 8 NaPoWriMo 2013
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Vernalis
Somewhere someone plans
a spring offensive
somewhere someone young
will die
the old will be bled
and babies force marched
through a warmer gentler
April
Where bombs will concuss
bullets bloom
and snipers shape shift with
sudden green shoots
and headlines will seek
an approbate font
as the front opens
winter’s history revised
*****Day Two NaPoWriMo April 2013
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