When the Dooryard Lilacs
It’s still May to early June for some of you,
and God bless if so, though the rest of us
are hobbled, cobbled back together, ends
and pieces, tire-tracked, near-greased,
glad to have our teeth. Skittish slightly,
made too superstitious to complain, the list
of patches, chronic maladies
as dull to hear chronicled
as a phone book read aloud, to the crowd
who haven’t advanced past their pinch-points,
to breaking and re-breaking,
the craft of repair so rarely
mastered while the sun shines,
when the dooryard lilacs full-bloom,
easy beauty, temporary immortality.
Apparently
Argentina
Running
a state takes active maintenance.
Ours is
falling down around our ears,
administratively
speaking, while our guy’s
been out
for weeks… …hiking the Appalachian Trail.
Or doing
something. That’s not my business.
I just field
the press inquiries. Our guy’s handlers
package
the message, I break verbal tackles
at a
podium. The wheels are flying off
inside
the state capitol, a wreck in progress
while
our guy gets in tune with nature.
Or those
weird rumors I’ve heard. None of my concern.
You
learn early in the P.R. trade
not to
poke holes in functional narratives.
They’re
tough enough to spin. If a sniff of salacious
counter-stories
hit the papers, I’m there, on point,
in gear,
doing what I do. We’d shift to firefighting mode.
The
Governor’s an avid hiker. Maybe he simply forgot
to call
his wife and say that he’s okay.
They pay
me for quelling panic,
not for
breaking news.
Halcyon Springs
Waist
long,
her hair
touched the creek,
wet curls on the ends.
A hundred degrees heat-slake,
wading in the spring-fed water, clothes on the mud-bank.
If you’ve heard anything better,
tell us, spread the joy.
A yard long,
cold springs,
pure
sun.
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