Franny and Zooey
and me,
watching
behind raybans.
ankles crossed,
boots on the rail,
a bleached-bone chair
back on rickety legs.

(poseur)

five finches
flutter and chirp,
pick at cake crumbs.
an enormous suv arrives,
and they scatter.

(oil spill)

a man in seersucker slacks,
loafers with no socks,
whistles,
discreetly drops his stir stick
on the pavement.

(care)

a bumble bee on his back
rights himself repeatedly,
buzzes round most crazily.
shall I kill him?

(hole in sky)

a glitter “diva”
on the phone, loudly,
something about a cruise,
some new clothes.

(third world)

the bee goes silent.
turns out,
i should’ve killed him.

(too late)

Salinger went silent in 65,
then more so this past winter.

(everything dies)

i watch for Seymour’s
“Fat Lady,”
but it is so dark here.

(save us)

i cannot see the Christ
in them,

(doubt)

nor in me.

05/03/2010

Author's Note: god bless the weary skeptic

Posted on 05/04/2010
Copyright © 2026 David Hill