rolling

When the 5 a.m. birds begin
I think of the previous spring,
and the failed story it brought.

but this is only three seasons of the year.
each season of rebirth I am far too busy
creating tales with some damnable rat

dressed up fine with groomed composure.
I wish I could say I had never spent at least
one night with each, but I cannot.

Most of them I take to my favorite frog
bar , The Swamp. And it is that.
a few of them I take to waterside cafés;

(That’s how you know I really like them.)
and even fewer I will take on day picnics
with a basket of food by yours truly.

(Each of those few picnic dates, I married.)
but they come and go, and it seems like
I wait longer every time for the next one.

Spring always brings them crazier than
the last—I once felt relief by my charred
apartment, grateful for my mind intact.

all these experience have equated to nothing;
I have had them and wasted them equally.
the stars have already orchestrated my end.

even so, I have learned that the way to
the heart is the empty stomach.

there always remains the chance
of a dying veggie agreeing to a
strangely soggy roast beef au jus.

I never speculate on the future, and
no one means to bring up the past,
but between all that grassmoke

and those Lilly pad picnics, I know
all I need to know of such
silly love.