Father Time Has a Face Made of Late-Season Vegetables
       

The sundry displays
of fall weather offer
little syncopation. As in,
let's bolt, let's blaze,
let's party, let's get starred.
Let's fiddle into the night.
I dream a dream of
coupons. My discounted
life waddles before
me like pigeons on a cornice.
What are these ladders
here for? The copper
spires, tarnished water-
tower green, the craggy
bluff overlooking the town,
the ash branches
dancing back and forth,
shaking out beetles-
none of these things
resolve lost time.
The refrigerated truck
unloading at midnight
behind the bar behind
my house hisses and sighs.
A sentient impulse
gathers between moments
of sleep. Cynics don't
last long here, says a man
in stretched-out
spandex pants to
the small audience
of new employees.
Go grab me a winter cap,
grab me a plastic soda bottle,
grab me a jackknife and
a sink screen. Listen
to the words the godhead
grumbles from his/her pile
of cumulous clouds: all
are welcome, all are welcome.

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Copyright © 2013 Rebecca Lehmann All rights reserved
from Subtropics
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission