he still imagined comets
and other astronomical signs
despite the brightened sky
while witty dinner jabs
and moments of parking lot vulnerability
mistaken for the path
played over in the thickest skull
this side of the Prime Meridian.
If ice had struck his tires
he'd turn into the skid
but he'd never admit the merit
in conquering oneself first.
She was magical in person.
It plucked and played on strings.
He swore he was storming Normandy
when returning to the crime scene
in that scholarship town
an hour north through red-leaf peak.
The story of Waterloo will confirm:
We lead several lives
in the breathing time we're given
and waste just as many
mining for more dirt.