And note to this day’s demise in stray
holiday lights blinking green and scarlet
splendor across our neighbor’s window.
One might wonder about people who leave
decorations fraying in February’s premature
thaw. Is it ache for a stalling of the cockroach’s
trek along a kitchen trail of crumbs, crude
sign the party’s past done? Or desire to keep
their costume balls rolling long after guests
wander home, capes and cracked tiaras
dragged through moonlit dirt? I want
to invite my neighbors in, share our best
canned mushroom soup dishes because magic
comes in tender buttons turned communal.
We could suck up fading majesty together:
mistletoe and fake snow glittering like in old
dime store displays where a toy train spits
real smoke in fleecy tufts towards stars
threatening to wink out. I’m sworn to a shelf
life of dust and kitsch with a view down
roads where gulls squawk better news
of fish on a rust horizon, where baby crabs
swish in with the brine, squirming through
our iced astonished fingers. I don’t fear
my death, only my children’s skills getting
on without me, despite their learned
mac ‘n’ cheese expertise, their crayon
brilliance triple mine and yet half
baked in ability to navigate the wilds
where a high noon glare can glow your skin
otherworldly or shrivel it to scrap.
I’ll have to mind these butterflies
swarming their young heads, painting
the town in winged, heavenly fits. I’ll have to
follow the fluttering maps, coats of gold
stretched wide like strutting models
launched from freeway shrubs. I’ll have to
know that anything can happen—there’s so much
room for good, and we’ll flaunt it. Like them,
we’ll flaunt it while everyone’s looking.