We Take Leave of Our Senses Under Tents
We get buried under tents
in cemeteries, a sensible
insurance send off,
throwing roses into a hole.
At parking lot carnivals in June,
I throw rings at
impossible duck necks,
tommy-gunning pop-up
rubber gangsters all for a
shot at the giant stuffed cod
you never wanted
...under a tent.
We got married under a tent.
Guests bit into
crisp leviathan shrimp, and
it was raining good luck rain,
so, our tent bet against
the weather paid off.
We were carnal
under a forest canopy
before we met, roaring and wild, we
kept the creatures up all night;
Your awning was sort of a tent:
striped in red and white over
your upscale catering truck by
the upscale curb,
you saw me coming
before I saw you going.
And the rain is deranged and pelting
as we gather under tents
throwing Kroger
roses into a hole.
I see them everywhere on my way
home from work in the hot summer,
the baking tents…bold, festive stripes
ripping across the melted
asphalt lots, hawking
all kinds of hope and fervor,
And I am raptured by their retail
evangelism, and always
come home proudly
with that leather ottoman
on sale, drastically reduced,
the one you always hated,
the one that nearly matched
the living room couch, and still doesn’t.
But in my own defense, my dear,
my sweet gone dear,
I had taken leave of my senses
for a moment, under a tent.
Copyright © Craig Sipe | Year Posted 2020
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