One of the last few embers
smoldering in a fire dying
on the edge of dry fields
a red scarf, baronesque,
snaked around his neck one
winter meltdown,
burning up
in self-righteous anger
he said against the January
blue
power lines through his head
and this little westward plane
shining in the last light’s
day
exiting his ear, shivering in
the shade,
a chaste Elvis of the Appalachians
where mothers saw their
lovely summers
twirled their gypsy robes
and left daughters withering
in his shadow
as days grew longer and cold.
He was one I wanted to make
proud to know me
to see everything he saw in
the dark
the zebras of the carousel
the housewives with their
parasols.
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