I should not write poems of the spring.
Poems of blooming, budding things
add little to the vault of human striving.
Palinode: I will end up writing one.
The wind is likely blowing outside,
I don’t know. I stare into my neighbor’s
window, inside, him and I, together.
His hanging ivy grows the same
In winter and in spring, depending
on its human heat and moisture.
It lives likes roaches in our alley,
who feast with vigor, rain or shine.
If spring had beady eyes and sharpened
claws like winter, or summer’s leonine
indifference to a roasting corpse, I’d
show it more respect. It don’t though.
Myself, I’m molting as the rain
melts life with damned repetition.
April’s showers merely smell like
something that’s been drowned.
I wait for heat or cold to fry or freeze
the shredded remains of our lonely striving.
Ignored, my neighbor stares at me and waters ivy.