Some friends say this is no time for humor
so I send them cartoons.
Smiling widens the face
un-gnashes the teeth, un-furrows the frown.
When nostrils flare, they let in more air.
Laughing is jogging, inner aerobics.
My Buddha is giggling.
Let the banana go black; it is no metaphor.
Peel me a grape but hold the wrath.
There's a dulcimer in the spare ribs,
a harp in the bombed piano.
Eventually a sigh elongates into music
and opens the fist into tendrils.
Even with a fly in the still-life
and a skull on the
table
there is light from our inner bulb.
And when grass is paved over
something we may call weed
pokes its head through a crack,
which can split the rock.
Watching Fox Noose,
how they sneer, how they smirk,
the manure they spew could someday be mulch.
Are those not buds surrounding the thorn?
Auden cannot un-say
we must love one another or die.
Thank you!
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