Everyday Canvas

Where I Live

(a persiflage to Dylan Thomas)


No “crisp paths” here
or December freeze,
but the grass is mostly green
if not torched by the sun,
and our “ghosts on dry toasts”
come out at night
as moles, raccoons, and wailing birds.

No snow to bury anything
but life to do us in, while we,
through our palm-sheltered days,
totter about and stumble
over our dark knots
whining, rasping, wheezing,
toward the predictable end
where the world never was.