—AND WE’VE GOT NOTHING TO BE GUILTY OF

 

 

Better Questions

 

Next door, Stevie Nicks spins irate 

while Moses fishes solo on the lake. 

True story. Pinkie swear.

All this, as summer molts into autumn,

performing the slowest costume change ever, 

another sheaf disappearing into the ether. 

And I know, I know, I know that

somewhere someone’s toasting a velvet ceiling,

someone else has just made love 

with the person they love most,

body-sweat sticky yet half-dry, 

promises damper than that.

But here a hard rain’s having 

it out around a card table, 

each cloud ready to throw down, 

thunder itching for its first shot in the majors,

while really, Stevie just wants someone to pet her,

the ducks only clamor for bread,

no fish hopes to be hooked or butchered,

the cedars absolutely love being bored,

every lake wave adores their own wrinkles,

as Moses busies himself reciting Buddha.

The inescapable truth is

there’s no reason to go outside, 

there’s no reason to do anything but 

watch the world slide 

a little farther through the sky, 

and perhaps take a few notes 

or learn to ask better questions.