Why not think history has no treachery?
That it roots anywhere but here?
In the suburbs, the Ides of March.
What a great grey spring day.
I soar past the ash, I scoff the rock,
And narrowly escape falling birds.
Who cares that my body is colder than glass?
What will the world remember, anyway?
That was my winter, my grieving soul.
Parking meter men with long tin cones
Hanging from their belts — not exactly
swords of peace. Life in the county goes on,
Dimes, tee shirts and wastepaper accrete.
Then a silver-toothed man smiles and I’m gone.