finch

what color would you say my eyes are?


i haven't put up a poem in a long, long time. unfortunately i don't have anything new, and i don't remember what i've posted before, so i apologize if anybody's re-reading this. in fact, i'm about 75% sure that i have posted it before. but i like it. so there

Small Town Death

Its the same every year:

The leaves are the northern lights compacted:
a miniature self-combustion as the green catches fire,
dies, and falls, feather-light, to the frost-frozen ground.

Gas station calendars flip pages, switch pin-up girls
from Summer Sarah to Autumn Allison. When old men
drive their slush-covered cars in and complain about the price
of gasoline, the Pennzoil girls in their black and gold
string bikinis distract from the dreary weather
and the loss of the good ol days often exaggerated
to wide-eyed drop-jawed grandchildren.

When I was eighteen
the busty brunette leaning on the hallow jack-o-lantern
smiled at me as I filled the rust-stained white
Honda Civic with the cheap stuff. That year,
her supple breasts and airbrushed curves
could not distract me
from the dying leaves, or my dying father
lying alone on a musty brown couch
watching the slow-motion aurora borealis
through the living room window, until the leaves fell
and his eyes lost their hazy focus.