Your ornamental trim is no longer gilt.
Swinging loose it minds those crusty mornings
of a decorative past when breath was your buddy
and a strong senseless sun lost.
Sooner or later all things run a course,
usually theirs, but not always.
When you walk down the stairs, your buddy
(not your breath) is waiting, swinging
with a girl, hair black as loss, twice as beautiful.
From her mouth immaculate moments tumble;
a torrid shine. You meet him with a lady your own,
so yielding she cannot stand.
But she loves you. But neither are there.
Your decorative trim, your ornamental gilded
absence swings again. Your buddy is struck down.
When the ambulance arrives paramedics question
the lost black hair, the woman in a pile in the snow.
The sun's senseless loss is our life. Should we chant
if the ambulance pulls the plug and our sky goes dark?
The course was not yours. Mind your decorative trim.
Things are sold to preserve it.



� 2004 by John Eivaz