by Kirby Congdon…….
Raking up the past in dead piles
of withered leaves, we dance
around the little sins 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
which younger men in their routine on garbage trucks lift on up
with weightless ease.