coating
Every year at this time
I try to paint winter pears
but it’s still an effort not realized,
quite. Near ripe, a cut on one
that will turn interestingly brown
and spread tomorrow, now just
weeps. My Morning Jacket
is singing One In The Same.
It sounds sadder than it is.
The pear with a ripped sleeve
begins to glaze itself
in the sweetness of its wound,
wraps its soft shoulders in the dun coat
of decay-before-ripeness as quickly
as the winter wind finds its way
into every un-stanched crack.
To the poet
The walls don’t talk
anymore than the mirror
records every face it reflects.
Beyond the words that bleed
from the walls steamed to peel
the paper that I pasted
to make a decorator’s statement
there is a blank that waits
for explanations
If nice guys finish last
then the paper hangers
get the loudest laugh.