To everything's season
On his first bicycle
he was tall, fearless
riding past Second Avenue theater
where he kissed his first girl
-- past the library that would one day
archive his monologs
-- past the travel agency
with its tickets to his African war zones
would one day make him a childless
captive of his own excitement
-- past the Fair Oaks home
he thought one distant day
would be acceptable to an ailing mother
The promise would be broken
maimed and tumor-ridden
turn-taking in the same
cremator's arms
platitudes hung in the air above their ashes
the same ones they had offered to one another
-- to everything, turn, turn turn
away from the flames
-- to everything, turn, turn, turn
away from mother and child
flames turning now to their
exploded cellular ordnance
umexplicated ironies
shall remain so
filtered through the choking exhaust
of a final duet
she should not turn turn turn
nor have learned to sing
August 2011