The growing universe of vintage cartoons
throws its soft physical humours at problems
twelve minutes and a frying pan
cannot resolve –
and all through the glorious truant months,
last year’s poems shimmer
like used cars
in licorice lots, vinyl seats hardening in the sun.
The summer starts to take its leisure.
Metered streets under spreading trees
go unwalked
and dogs, not poems, are put through their paces.
Unpedaled, upside-down, ticking backwards,
my mind wavers.
