Incidental Observations on Flamingos

 

The seasons are no longer

sparked by the wink

of an indulgent sun. Now

they arrive as novelties,

pre-assembled and shipped

from overseas in the dark

bellies of steel containers.

 

Autumn emerges. Incandescent

lights flooding aisles of candy

and costume that soon fade

into rows of paper pilgrims

with their blunderbusses

and the deceived natives

hung in their place.

 

Winter follows with its flocked

mendacities. Santas nodding

off in the break rooms. The scent

of elf wafting over the full tills.

 

Just today I noticed the stockers

pulling the shrink wrap girdle

from a pallet of pink plastic

flamingos, enchanting a couple

in matching polyester (shopping

as if they hadn’t gotten the news

that we were all stumbling

towards incomprehensible

annihilation). It must be Spring.

​​

​

Published in TOUGH POETS REVIEW 02

​

​