The neurotic old man one day found
an old journal of hieroglyphic scratches
and where creases ran into flesh
was a face of rumpled Christmas sweaters.
Can we cut down our tree this year?
If Big Foot’s anywhere it’s them woods
and while he don’t mind us goin’ our way
there’ll be nothin’ but trouble
nothin’ but trouble if we tear up his living room.
The arrival of Easter was a humid affair,
of dew tipped grass a nest for all life forms:
Plastic eggs with chocolates and dollar bills
scrunched inside like ossified yolk.
Do you remember when we were twenty?
Each step its own spring,
a deranged slinky marching up the stairway
“to heaven, to heaven!”
we cried in our fierce volition.