sometimes we glimpse hope;
children outside an ice cream parlor
with sticky pink cheeks and laughs
that are still laughed carelessly,
"please, do not ever grow up"
or guitar strings, sings smooth blues
as they are picked and plucked
like yellow cherries off Summer's tree
(parasites from masochistic hosts)
smiling old men on street corners,
fickle crawfish-bellied adventurers,
van gogh's still life of the oleander
or manet's crystallized folies-bergère,
bent-backs brushed in reassurance,
headlight, dark ride, dream of flight,
an icy blue december sunrise calling
timid steps to pattern the lawn, and
your pale gardenia smell
these bittersweet theatrics haunt me-
yet they're all we have
