Spring first arrives in the shop
windows
along the main strip in town. In
the park
it’s still mushy and wet,
and not far from where
the outpatients will try to sell
me
nuggets and buds, where young
Freud
in the restroom is smoking his
crack,
where the pigeons are getting in
position
for their interpretative dance, I
read
in the cement: INDIAN CAMPS
PRIOR TO 1845. In fact
not far from where I find an
Indian man
passed out in his wheelchair,
missing
the lower end
of his right leg. And just in
case
we should yield to the wrong
ideal
and begin picking broken
cigarettes
off the street, several flags
are flying here. I count four.
No,
five. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not
unpatriotic:
I believe in life,
liberty and the pursuit of land.
I believe this
Ferris Wheel will not break
mid-ride
and dump me to the ground.
I believe in
following the tight piece of ass.
I believe when you
flush the toilet, shit
simply disappears.
I believe the
headless mannequins
in the windows will teach us what
to wear
when the birds return. And just
in case
we should yield to the wrong
ideal,
behind them somewhere, poised
in the inner rooms,
are their headless mannequin
surgeons
with jackhammers and gypsy
spoons.
I believe
it’s too early in the season to
get excited,
too many games left to be played,
but when the Indians get sober,
there will be hell to pay.
When the fires are
lit,
when these feathers are plucked,
when men sprout new legs and step
softly
through store window displays.
