I remember you and me on a highway
To somewhere. The shadows had turned
To fool's gold; there was a white buzzard
Somewhere above us. You sideeyed me
And said, They gave us the script, but they
Forgot to tell us the plot line --- and they
Still refuse to tell us who the author is.
I recall your mother, hands spidered in time,
Ankles swathed in fat, saying, at least 1,000 times
"I'm tired of people telling me what's good for me."
Then she would nod, dewlaps waggling,
Her face touched by nets, eyes blind by moons.
Sometimes I think it gets too late too soon;
And sometimes I think we're too good to die.
Love, and the flowers, and your whimsy
Is hard to forget --- no matter how I try.
They've made us into wise gods (I think)
But flies and spiders are tangling our days.
Love, and the ages,
And time comes on
Like a ragged shawl:
Sometimes I think it gets
Too late too early,
And sometimes I think
They should have
Strangled us alive
In the crib.