The sign says "Baby Sale"
as I drag the Christmas tree
to a dumpster by the Church to be recycled.
The ice cream truck drives slowly by
as I unwind lights from the mesquite
and pause in January heat.
Ornaments in egg cartons, railroad towns in boxes,
as I broom away the pine and cactus needles
like the merging of the tribes.
Writing all this down, it is the only way
to keep the rising tiger at bay.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Post-Epiphany Blues
