Wednesday, June 12, 2019

IN SPITE

Somehow,
in spite of everything—
everything
is always reconciling.

In spite
of what you did,
than didn't
do right after that

taupe skies lighten, then
clear before sunset,
proceeded by a harvest moon's
copacetic light.

In spite of those things
you said that night
and all the times
you failed to be there

in the morning, there's still
the smell of lilacs waiting,
a sparrow's simple song, rolling
dew-bright sod galore.

In spite of your entire
personal history, every
flash flood and furious blizzard
ravaging your background

a holiday weekend
keeps nosing back around,
like the wet snout of
some mute little animal

who's decided
it needs you, regardless
of how stony or
deadpan you act.

No matter which closet,
which attic you've chosen
to sit in with two index
fingers jammed in your ears

the three-day forecast
still seeps in there
from a portable radio
on the neighbors' back patio

and damned if it doesn't
still sound pleasant—or
at the very least, terribly
unremarkable.

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