Four Quarters of Fifteen Minutes in the Suburbs
I.
If Happiness is
the one conversation to which
the pylons aren’t privy
then Sadness
must be the silent tapdance
of the blackbirds
on the faceless concrete.
II.
I’m crucified on the melting
pyres of a six o’clock sunset.
Will you resurrect me at the
traffic lights?
III.
Notions, maxims, axioms
all hung up on the radiator
have fermented
in the dirty weeks of late January.
They babble from my eyelashes
and trickle into carbonated
footsteps.
Only the noisiest ideas
give you the bends.
IV.
Motors.
From the left.
Or the right?
They all roar what might as well be
appreciation.
