Requiem

This poem was published in the Beacon Street Review in the fall of 1999.

REQUIEM FOR BLUE FEATHERS

“I’m not even trying,” Azalea said, as she zeroed in on the target.

Everyone was either limping or crawling

through the last five miles of the day.  Our mouths were dry

with the dust of past generations.  Dreams had been kicked

and scrambled into oblique forms against the red roofs

of our town.  Oceans were being drained

to re-fill the old vat of marketable rebellion.

There was no separation between the senses.

“Too many outfits,” someone else said,

as Azalea lifted off the ground in her blue swan feathers.

The dark November wind had settled her breathing

back into fire.  We took bets to see which alley she’d turn up in.

I couldn’t decide whether to turn away from the view or be sick

in my socks.  It was getting colder and all the tattooed

lovers were selling their stocks to keep their place

in line before she crashed. 

“It’s a world economy now,” I said, burying my father’s

hospital bills in the backyard.  Every hour was sponsored

by Microsoft or Mobil.  We wore sandwich boards to work

to ward off the inquisitors: “I am not a socialist.” 

Meanwhile, I dreamed of Azalea’s blue flight

as the last editions of independent thought

caught between my teeth like raw meat.  For now,

we wake to the lovesick strains of mediocrity

rubbing its dreary wings together.