Andante and Filibuster
Remember last month, when he was saying
doomed lovers’ syndrome uproots us all?
They all wanna hear that,
and hanging them out to dry slumpingly caresses
the center for new needs, and we’ll stiffen some near
the walled city and find 100 per cent electricity of the vote.
(Not sure about that.)  Funny you should ask.
We got a small grant to have the house inspected and
as a result of that discovered a small crack
leading from the front door to the basement.
Much thinner air here, although the nation’s salt and pepper
sprinkle the neighborhood.  Hose her down.  Keep trying
to creep out, test ingot possibilities.
Recently in the stores I spotted
preppy garbage.  Grew a ten-gallon hat shopping
in the ruins, how it feels around
the edges—something you do for a moment.  Brutally
obnoxious, I like to know who’s coming and going
and not be bothered.  (Promised
to wake him up in July.)  Still not doing
anything to incur our attention?
Then you have followed all what we have to say.
Cough it up—little green cross-eyed slits.
No bricks.  Just mortar.  Ready.  Ready for a takeover.
The catalpas of reconciliation wilt,
proving, if little else,
why a good presentation matters.