“The Life that Could Have Been” by Ayla Rogers
That van that runs on mysterious fuel—
Periwinkle from an old can of paint—
Dissolves the pain of “can’t” with fire. Ants
Go marching in, we haven’t time for saints.
Don those peacock feathers, ‘cause we get it.
Up higher than Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,
And you know we’ll never lie-about it—
We’ll be up and out all night, just prowling,
Like a safari of calico cats,
Camouflaged against this brown shag carpet.
Like dinosaurs in bedrock, ghosts in snow,
Flavored like fresh grapes—otter pops, we suck
On down by our favorite water spots
That match the dots of our constellations,
Complications on a rug, made up of
All our favorite colors, covers us—
It can cloak the contours of the bodies
That match us like a pair of dirty socks
Match each other, like Uranus and Puck—
A midsummer night’s dream, unromantic,
But worth the watered-down margaritas,
Meals of mangos from the trees, we savor
The piña colada buzz,
the flavor
Of coffee named for the beds of rivers,
Nations below Southern California—
Geographically, as is depicted.
What a blaspheme, like an
eight-year train-wreck,
Turning heads and rubber, necking hoodlums,
As though they bore the cross, or the prophet
Mohommad—redeemable, or worthy
Of praise and packing picnics for summer.
Riding beasts as though they all wore horse-shoes,
Culling poison apples, or anything
We can eat without a can-opener.
No comments:
Post a Comment