Celebration

Tall, handsome, eyes light, hair curly,
He didn’t have a job and still lived at home,
But his frumpy mom clearly adored him
And he walked around our town as if
His mere existence was cause for celebration.

Years later, after his untimely demise
I realized—he was right.

You’re not allowed to say it.
You’re not allowed to even think it.
Not when the two thousand pound bombs are yours.

Dressed in Sunday finery,
Feeling virtuous,
I’m reading the Gospel
And listening to the preacher’s sermon
In my head: "I will think good thoughts.
I will tread the righteous path.
I will avoid sin like the plague—"

But come Saturday night,
Several beers in at the meat market,
I'm thinking otherwise.

Stuck?
Start with "Once upon a time,"
End with "and they lived happily ever after,"
Write some **** inbetween,
Then send if off to The New Yorker.

Now grab a beer, sit back and wait
For the acceptance notification
And a generous contributor’s check.

After dinner, a nap and a good stretch
he eyes the living room sofa,
eager to sharpen his claws.

"No Kitty no."
"Bad Kitty!"

Still, fleeing from me,
a dying bird in his jaws,
Kitty is as innocent as the day he was born.

We talk about cold fronts
and warming trends.
We talk about imminent storms.

Hail, frost, wind.
The long hot summer.
We nod, smile, commiserate.

We talk about the weather
To keep from killing each other.

A slug slogging along
The surface of the pavement
And arriving.

It's not a dream.
It's not a nightmare.

Go Buddy, go!