We are all drowning.
The wind can't even
Catch a breath.
From his high chair
The white-nosed
Lifeguard
Doesn’t even think
Of resuscitating
The child in the deep end,
The man being swallowed
By an inflatable whale.
A black hearse arrives
And loads them up.
On the cracked road,
Between psalms written in tar
On the concrete median,
Everyone changes
Into their most somber attire.
The hearse is a convertible
And it’s a nice day.
The Beach Boys are playing.
The toupees of the dead
Are flying to heaven, but nobody
Notices a damned thing.
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