Sunday, June 4, 2017

Sunday at Mother's

A blue '59 Citroen,
As rustic as a tractor on an endless hay field,
Glows redolent in the grocery parking lot
With Parisian dreams of existential teens
And the hairpin escapes of the rich and dangerous —
A classic car, one may say, in a world where
Distinction narrows like the late afternoon,
Something, perhaps, to aspire to ...

Until the owner, baggy pants, supplements clutched
In hand, opens its creaking door —
Dutch Masters cigars fill the ashtray,
5150 bags fill the floor;
It's a wonder it even drives, as much as
He's alive, with that look
Of complete despair.

And so the eye betrays again,
Sides with what is lost and unrecoverable —
There's no safety in this world,
Only pathos in what's become of all we knew,
The prerequisite for faith:
No possible solution.

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