This is all very blah—

Picking apart the day

like grey hairs uninvited.

The people wait in line

for frappe’s and creamsicles

dripping wet from leaky faucet

mouths of children half asleep.

And mom’s mother Mary Annette

dangling her strings from crooked joints

to anyone who will listen,

even the kids tune her out.

And boredom spread like smiles

over reluctant father’s faces

who’d kill to keep their family safe,

and at the same time be anywhere but.

What a time to be alive, says the old man

generic in his enthusiasm,

talking nowhere, you know back in my day—

Nickels. Dimes. And War.

It’s no wonder there’s limits on parking

and aspects of life we don’t bring up,

and crystal balls and metaphysical shops

selling peace of mind for change.

This is all very blah—I know,

it’s just someone’s wearing GAP Dream,

the same perfume she used

to remove me from her skin

on car rides home

before either of us could drive.