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by Gabriel Ricard

Vodka filled in for champagne,
and the celebration lasted until
they were up to their necks
in confetti made of electric bills and tires.

The new morning is only new
because it hasn’t been February 31st in a long time.

Sprinklers flood driveways
up and down the neighborhood,
but that doesn’t slow down the five women in black.

One of them reads from a book that used to be The Bible
until someone replaced all the words with a low, kind moan.
The other four nod. They imagine that imagining that the streets
are paved with rapidly melting gold will forgive them
the trespass of failing to save a single stupid kid.

They pass by the house with stop signs
in the windows where the glass used to be.
The old Hopi Indian who lives there went crazy
saving all those kids from playing in the street,
so he has Chinese food delivered every two or three days.

The aspiring mediums who go in there
are never quite the same when they come out.

The party rages on though.
It probably needs some anger management,
or someone to tell them that the smoke
from the old Pittsburgh factories covering the sky
is not an excuse to stay up all night.

The new morning was only new
to the darlings swing-dancing on the roof
of a car that started up
as if it could actually beg for Monster Joe.

It’s ten years to the day,
to the day,
for the girl laying face down
on the front lawn.

Ten years ago,
eighteen candles felled eighteen empires,
and landing was still as good as falling.

Everyone else is inside. Fast asleep.
Quiet like this almost never comes around.
A person usually has to die to hear the traffic
on the other side of the city so clearly.

The owner of the house isn’t getting out of bed.

He has a drag queen on his left,
and the drag queen’s little sister on his right.

He doesn’t want to wake them up.
He doesn’t want to wake anyone up.

If everyone leaves
someone’s going to have to beat the shakes,
and do the dishes.

So, he lays there,
stares straight up
and looks for evidence of Roswell
in the patterns on the ceiling.

07/22/2012

Posted on 07/22/2012
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Sarah Wolf on 07/24/12 at 08:46 PM

Ricard you always have some of the most original lines I always feel I must have been thinking somehow . "One of them reads from a book that used to be The Bible"... loved that one!!! Funny and entertaining as always...

Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 08/06/12 at 10:52 PM

Gobsmacked as usual. These lines especially clued me in to the title's meaning: or someone to tell them that the smoke from the old Pittsburgh factories covering the sky is not an excuse to stay up all night.

Posted by Laura Doom on 08/17/12 at 04:33 PM

Reminds me of a brain-wash masquerade I attended one Sunday in purgatory; I left before the transfusions--this seems a whole lot healthier, if only for the reader...

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