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.