Gray Ponderings in the Burbs
A paltry morning, bare of leaf.
Hours puddle
between the shallow bones
of a decaying season.
I lean against the truck for shelter,
yet prying winds
still slip sharp blades
through cringing ribs.
The gas nozzle gulps
as if it were drinking
not pumping.
I ponder the fact
that all gas stations in Ohio
are built inside a wind-tunnel.
The boxed undecorated donuts
were an impulse buy,
I scold myself...
am I that gray today
that I must eat only gray food,
nevertheless, they go home with me,
as if they were newly baked
and not manufactured from goo and dust.
On the way, I pass the newly dead,
four white headstones
in the local graveyard,
they stand out beside the
charcoal gray of the long planted.
Seems to me
that the newborns
are killing off the weak and elderly.
The gray poetry of disease
rides an arctic wind.
Supply and demand
engenders a stockpiling
of donuts, coffins and holes.
This is not a time for looking back
least a rear-view mirror
shows me the future.
Perhaps I will dunk the donuts
in deep black coffee,
pump a few bites into me
and not gulp,
but I know that as usual
I will gulp,
for I have many holes
to fill this day.
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