Jurassic, era of choice.
Wading in the evertropic,
chomping on chlorophyll when some
Tyrannosaur cuts you off and in
fact yes the middle finger is the
digit of the 21st century.
I play the archer in an ’86 pickup.
You have not in fact severed my
arrow finger and I will now
pierce your Firestones with a
flick of my wrist.
The present day is a hydroplane, a
turbojet, we no longer have
watches we have phones that
order us around and don’t even
do laundry the bitches.
Laptoppers fill the coffeehouse in
perfect schoolhouse rows, facing
east like morning glories.
I tap my baton on the
podium and begin the
overture to Giovanni.
The hours ramrod past.
I am Orion with a longbed and a list:
Restore Anne to the ancestral couch.
Follow Janine’s U-haul to Pacifica.
Chase the Pleiades across the sky.
Drive Nina to the airport
(She dreams of Paula,
turning to ashes in Phoenix).
The errands go to the lucky ones.
I sit at my window, dining on
unemployment stew, watching the
neighbors dodge lightning bolts.
Nina calls from baggage claim.
Paula’s in a coma.
Floyd’s gone, Sandy’s in chemo,
Nadine’s lost her house and
Lois is losing her mind
(Ellen dreams of Phoenix,
who is not a city but a cat).
My hand on the truck door.
A white dot bores a hole in
the crushed velvet it
might be The Asteroid.
Notes: Life is stressful, and sometimes the disasters come in sixes and sevens, but when the disasters belong to everybody but you, it's time to write a grateful poem. Better to be the consoler than the consoled.