Tonight the accident investigation lane
is as full of holes as the moon. I admit
a small befuddlement. The highway
from Paris to Wichita Falls is legend,
the highest concentration of accident
investigations on the continent. You
say I'd find a way to make a nuclear
disarmament treaty morbid. The fact
that such treaties are needed is macabre
in and of itself, I say. You say I was right,
the sky needs a good lint-rolling. The guffaw
is now on the other foot. I thought
you'd at least enjoy the vastness, I say.
I think the lesson is that the weather
never turns out how you hope, you say.
I don't know if it's the prickly pear
ice cream we're eating or what, but
I think you're on to something big.
The New England Carnivorous Plant Society
I'm dusting my houseplants
when a plainspoken brochure
slips under the door. The largest
plant society in New England
has invited me over for lunch.
I talk it over with Audrey, my
mother-in-law's tongue. Something
nefarious may be waiting for me
behind the angel's trumpets lining
the society's driveway, which
is strange. Those plants are always
looking down where their sandals
would be. None of them know
a drop of blood from a drop of rain.