NOTE: With permission, this piece is accompanied by the mesmerizing photography of Tammy J. McNary
by Ben Koch
In the age of coughing
sky and skin burn
it’s come to this: Winter needs
a new prime minister.
Our borders have loosened,
the old guards have dozed
in the snow, hunched or keeled
into a final white nap.
The bright seasons
are restless and careless:
when Autumn tosses
a billion rotting pumpkins
over its back fence,
who scolds her?
And then Spring slurps up
our pool of resources
for it’s mosaic dazzle;
Summer screeches
across earth leaving blackened
tracks like a drunk
teenager in a Mustang–
who’s taking measures here?
If elected I would quickly employ
a department of seasonal security, I’d call
the hard-ass types who know when to whip
and bite, flannelled poets who shoot
bears just to warm their feet,
men of powerfully few words who know
the back places of loneliness
like eccentric lumberjacks
caressing favorite trees like lovers.
Men who know some miseries
are worth dying for.
Hey, hit away! I’ll take them anywhere… 🙂
This is my very favorite of yours on here. I’ve re-read it several times, and again today when it decided to be Spring. Sorry for messing with your hit-meter 🙂