by Kirby Congdon…….
Raking up the past in dead piles
of withered leaves, we dance
around the little things we missed
as that song of grief we sing
becomes a pagan howl of rectitude
to redeem whatever victories we did not win.
So losers begin their lives again and watch the trash bags
almost burst their straining seams
as perfection’s world unfolds
in listless imitations
of those dust-laden dreams
that younger men in their routine
on garbage trucks lift on up
with weightless ease.