Doin’ the Dystopian (pt.III, Permission to Hide)

Miss Mary curls up beside me sleeping
(or pretending, likely she’s had enough
of me) on
this day if for now,
if I can postpone the remote/
flatscream chnl.46, put off for
another hour or three
the madness, our
daily death march juxtaposed
with an OrangeMan lying to us all
through goggles-no-mask having just
been served a McMuffin by a suddenly
ill valet, if I can do this, then
today COULD be one wide exquisite haven
of cloudy and cool
of as dark and thick and reassuring as
the very belly of my sweetly (perhaps
dozing?) sweet

cat. No tryin’ hard to be cheery
weatherfolks sharing news of a
perfect spring day ‘cuz ain’t nothin’
nearly perfect no more,
so please do postpone the utter gall in
in assuming bright shiny and warm
as delineated from our bedroom windows,
would be preferable to the precious of
protective: windy misty stay stay
P&J sandwiches and junky sweatjamas,
stay all cloudsU2 yes! More solace in this
grinning at a simulated sun
with an ambivalent grin and
biting noxious bullets as

we squint in the harsh
light of pseudo renewal and the dying and
the lying. Permission to
hide: now, and I learned it
back then which is really
all I’d wanted to chat about today:
rain-out days at day camp,
no stumbling for wicked line drives in exiled
right field, no sadistic races for flustered
11-yr-olds from the horrifying pop-gun
start. Stay
clouds today, stay! then, back

then, just creamsicles, then movies,
in the
just-saved-my-butt shaded bellies
of damp old day camp
rec rooms.