Mardi Gras


From the ledges
of winterís
ghostly rooms,
robins spy
pyracanthas
along the street.

The berries are ripe:
drunken voices
erupt among the thorns.

I revel in the sight,
pour another glass of wine.

The second time
I look outside,
a hearse is waiting
at the curb.

To cheer him in his work,
I go downstairs
and greet the driver.

He answers with a curse,
then drives on, empty.

November 23, 2006










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