The End of Spring

The end of spring’s beginning never fails
to bode a mournful middle, even as
the grass seems greener than it ever has
been, flowers are in fullest bloom and sails
are carrying the winds of summer across
the bay: it always takes me by surprise
to finish rubbing winter from my eyes
and rudely find the unexpected loss
     of innocence that comes and goes too soon.

My spring has sprung and all the birds have flown
away.  My spring has sprung and all that was
awakening begins to settle down,
and even as the warmer dawns of June
exhilarate, I hesitate, because,
as morning dews of May dry with the sun,
     my innocence, by the toll of noon, is gone.

Now middle age begins, yet I feel young
and ready as I ever will be to
leave spring behind and shake away the dew
that never satisfied me.  Spring, if sprung,
be damned: the summer’s beckoning me now
and I’ve got vernal promises to break
and miles to go before I let sleep take
me; that will be a cold night anyhow
     when the ghosts of innocence steal me away.

My spring has sprung; all memories of birth-
days celebrated have blown out their fires.
June’s been stuck on the wall for months and months,
mocking the paper trails of time and youth.
I’m never home; it’s not home anymore;
I’ve gone away for summer, for all it’s worth,
     forgetting spring, refraining innocence.

Scavengers

I’ll start this one in the middle:
We’re fighting even though, or just because,
We both believe in the same things
     And nothing really matters
Beyond the business at hand.
     We jump into our wars

And pick every little battle
As scavengers collect aluminum:
No scrap is too small
     As long as it’s redeemable;
Never mind how silly we look
     Dragging garbage down the street;
     They’ll weigh it in the end

And we’ll have some money to eat.
Here’s one of those positions, by the way,
We share but fight about endlessly:
     Having enough tender
To pay the bills, a little more
     To get through rainy days,

That, and being allowed to be a dreamer:
See, I’ve, and you’ve, had dreams of better days
And both of us are wondering
     And worrying the same things:
About the balance of suffering,
     Today and tomorrow, and how
     We’ll bear it now
     And weigh it in the end.

North Side Story

Compare: the rich fools and the poor losers,
happiness and misery, as if the surface was their story
through and through, as if the smiles upon their faces
ran as deep as the scowl on yours.

And more: you dream big dreams constructed of envy,
green as grass, born in shadows,
from which the mansions in your mind stretch higher,
around which the bitter grass grows greener.

Despair: it is not fair, the way they never finished high
school, how they cheated everyone to get ahead, leaving you
looking through fences, cursing the gods of sides,
of giving and taking.

But what for? Your misery wins you nothing,
your curses even less, the vacuous disapproval
of your neighbors shaking their heads, tut-tutting
and casting down their eyes on your poverty.

Paris and Valentino

I’ll never trade you in for Paris, Baby
And you will never have the man
Who makes his million Euros
At a Metro sandwich stand
With a fifth grade education,
But I yam what I yam
And you will always be
the one for me.

We once walked along the river;
I still hold on to the dream
Of lovers on a starry night
Before the stars became
So complicated.  Anyway,
I yam what I yam, etc….

Stand me next to Valentino, Baby,
I will never have the tan
Or the money or the fame
But I’ll keep doing what I can
To make you happy….