Who is here
and who will bother?
It doesn't matter dear,
remember the run-in with your father?
Yes, I know, but each
sequestered in his unlikely yard
convinced as it were that things are peachy
for the others, only we have it hard.
But only we do. Just think of here.
The makeshift rains, the field-school
closed in un-repair. And down at the pier
a flower-soft beetle drowns in a pool.
Doesn't that all mean something to you honey?
After all the migraine months of fear?
I don't acclimate well to towns squashed by money.
I've forgotten where I placed a certain year.
Next time, with brooms and prisms, can we mount the roof,
skip into the fenced-off idleness of something proud?
Forget the beige recliner. Indian summer's all our proof.
Love's comfort lies in bed, gazing out at lazy clouds.
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Comments about this poem (Lady's Cummerbund by Adam Fitzgerald )
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