Wednesday, April 29, 2020


No more Mardi Gras, no more mezcal,
no more wild nights hopping fences,
no more honky tonk parade,
No more grocery store orchids
or floppy irises,
No more juncos or chickadees
with their maniacal chirping,
now its all mourning doves and woodpeckers,
now it's all crow.
Soft pretzels petrified, Grey Goose turned to dishwater.
We no longer get tipsy, just hungover.
No more joyous reunions, no tearful reconciliations.
There's just this cold morning
with an endless cold day ahead,
a mask of sidewalk cracks,
and in my back pocket, a taped-together snapshot
I can't bear to look at.

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