Somewhere,
among the unchangeable patterns of pomp and circumstance,reflected in the fragments of yet another out-of-tune,
now late autumn afternoon,
pride, befittingly hides its supercilious head
within a corrugated carton of crackers and cream cheese.
And from the wall of the rose garden
a mockingbird sings . . . a worthy tune, indeed!
There –
through the evening's shimmering haze and hues
of blues and grays
a frail, veiled moon appears . . . and reappears
and for a moment, just for a moment
I start to take the easy-way-out.
When suddenly, I realize
(recalling that women from Boston
Irwin thought he was in-love-with a year ago)
that there 's absolutely nothing to curl-up and cry about.
Absolutely nothing!
And so, as one of those buried grins
begins to break beneath my manly disguise,
I bow to a more delicate defense
and laugh my ass off.
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