My wife tells me I’m fluffy. Rivals beg
to differ. The defense rests till fresh dirt
gets tossed by the wimpering few who care
to see my end. Even then, difference
of view clutters airwaves depending on
distance and bent: those who have seen me throw
hats, one subset; chairs, another; running
jumpers, a third. Mom’s seen it all. Dad’s dead.
In such situations, the wind tries hard
to wipe slates clean for kinder and their creeping
gardens. Culture fuel-injects what nature
offers free: proclivity, the weeping
willow factor: do you like to lie under
the circumstances, gazing up at swirling
branches and their blurry seeds, or do you
prefer staring upright at a painting
of the same tree, buying the kind of truth
family membership brings?—Thursday evenings
free, discounts in the gift shop, calendars
ripping off the days in all their bourgeois
beauty and repose. Monet had his haystacks,
I have my ballgames. Some needles never
get found, some parachutes never open.
I’ll see you at my funeral, snickering.