fall from grace
all due respect to the poet,
september is the cruelest month.
our children and our harvest, whisking away;
silence and dying leaves, singing melancholy in their place.
my sorrow complete by empty playgrounds reminding
of joy, but stark and barren like my arms.
i rode my bike to town, to the library, to the gym, and took myself out to breakfast.
george from the diner singing
the blues about the breakfast club dwindling down
to a few elderly patrons chewing–
a symphony of gums smacking against dentures.
an occasional heatwave bursting through,
dismal grey looming,
a goodweatherahead omen lying through the teeth of pre-winter storms.
ah september you wicked,wicked man!
your seductive sunshine belying
a heart of pure winter ice.