Cotillions of empty, odd pairings of local wines
And a general absence of conversation.
Printed handbills announce silent auctions—
Half lives burn down in clay, sweetie,
Just how it is; rebarbative Barbies
For sale in a garage; children grown
They didn’t take them; some woke,
Left home; a crow with one wing
Ambles, looking pissed,
Gets another day; winter oft
Sharpens teeth, yes,
Those are infant coffins.