A curtain of hazy attitude
colors the axis, heavy breathers appear,
sweaters and leaves demand coloratura,
the hourglass men arrive to change
your sand, which reminds me, I promised
myself a new pair of yellow galoshes
from Central Square where the redressed
windows make of us what they can
before the contractually obligated snow
is delivered by the moving vans
that seem to grow like dandelions
this time of year. This time of year?
Do I smell a parade? Already the yearning
to keep my own counsel and steal
my neighbor's newspaper and stain
their door with the last tomatoes.
So—before I ossify
let's walk. Let's sally. Isn't that why
we made a home—to have a place
to leave? Let's paint this town gray.