A Day At The Pink Beach
An umbrella being dragged at the day's end.
A seagull churns its wings,
the hard flight of Icarus.
Pink swimsuits blown in the wind,
in search of due course.
Time is needy, a bronzed babe walks by, a regular
statue of Liberty, her flesh turning to
green palor as the water cools.
In this empty beach dream of deepening sky,
the wet Kremlin and White House
are eroded as our childless hopes.
An old woman collects
seashells-caverns of poverty
to be sold to our deaf ears.
The ocean roars of stolen property.
Old Town Theatre
The theatre had changed
for the monkeys had gone home.
No more clapping in unison,
no more imitation
For love was more than faux baubles.
The mardi gras of the soul,
a lone king with a violin and his pint of ale.
And the script, too, had changed-
To be of a place only on a stage