Spring bouquets throng
The Frigidaire. Spring is
The oldest virgin going. Mild
Vandals paint subway escalators blue, and I am
Lifted to street level like a package marked THIS
I have presents for you all
naked under the flagpole.
Somewhere, someone is listening to Metallica against his will.
Hooded initiates can’t tell us what they know.
Remind me of dizzy pinwheels
Of flowers, old mansions on high bluffs choked
With weeds and grasses, old men
Cackling at cookouts,
All the pricey wines I’ve swallowed.
I don’t go anywhere much.
But when I go to the wine store,
I say hello to Italy and France, Australia
And its convict progeny, and I tell them
I am sorry:
I am part of this problem,
And I drink my share of sunshine all night long.