Brigadoon, Redux

poppiesTake the measure of your day,
What do you see?
Accomplishments scamper,
no bigger than fleas

Orange poppies reduced
To a sterling grey spoon
Brought over the roast-flame,
A cold Brigadoon.

Now lie back again,
Though you’ve just woken up
And take sip from any
These old broken cups

Filled with vodka or whiskey
The night’s heavy score
Is just what you need
To awaken the lore

Of your once and true
Now long-fabled self
A harpoonist, a harpsichord,
A nimble young elf!

Popular, your friends,
They were all so worth knowing
Taking liquor for granted,
Wild oats just for sewing.

What fun you did have,
The clubs and the scene.
Your head on the toilet
A track and a preen.

But people get married
And they move away
Or lose interest or die
With the last light of day.

And you are left standing,
Strings still strung quite taut,
And begging for whales
That are fresh from the slaught.

But none will come coming
They’ve faded away
Your gimmicks and stories
All strung up like hay.

So lie back please
Steady yourself, dear.
The needle comes quickly
There’s nothing to fear.

No chance and no hope
To pause and remember
The black nights of March,
The worst of September.

It’s all of the same,
Or now it is not.
Happiness—nightmares—
They can’t be store-bought.

 

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