The shortest month
is one you know

as that
during which we gambled

our independence
on hundreds of bills

and bartered
for each other

and while there bumped into the
former President and his

Secret Service (where was his wife do you suppose?)
and eavesdropped on elevator performers

and thier well-formed Cirque buttocks
complain

bemoan, bitch, and tongue-kiss
bewildered why so many

asses would choose
to watch theirs spin

and the painted ceiling clouds
were like nothing

but paintings
as everything but you

was nothing but a painting of itself
though time

buckled and raced and tripped
and fell

arms flailing
like that murder of children

chasing their mother’s
Pontiac as she pulls away from the house

to make a fool of some bitter
assistant today

just as she does
every day she wakes

dreaming of those painted clouds
how torrential the rain.

via: Red Wheelbarrow » The Shortest Month

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