My Annual Superannuation
No words linger in my mouth.
The aftertaste is horrible,
but I smile my toothless smile
and pretend to pity the trees
broken by post-historical storms.
But they reject my solicitude—
too busy stabbing at the sky
with their naked and pointed stumps.
You urge me to speak, but crows
pre-empt whatever I think,
and their sudden punctuation
leaves no exclamation unexclaimed.
You insist on driving downtown
in our antique Chevy Impala,
which groans on rubbery springs
and coughs up broken spark plugs
every fifty miles or so.
You park this homely vehicle
the way you’d park a devilish
child at a daycare center.
Yes, I can still think in foolish
but utile metaphors any
high-school teacher would censor
with a slash of blood-red ink.
I’m too old to express the thoughts
of stubby trees and rusty sedans,
too shy to shout birds from the sky,
but I can still claim enough
air space to make my reeking breath
a force to be reckoned with.
Yes, coffee and a plain doughnut
would settle my current unease.
Despite the efforts of thunderstorms
and the quick dim shadows of crows
following wherever I go,
I’m not that difficult to please.