Cross-Dressing

The seasons cross-dress from time to time

They tire of adherence to traditional appearance

In the dead of winter cirrus clouds punctuate a perfect cyan

In the part of town where the streetlights have been made into

Mosaics. There's a lady selling caricatures on the corner

Where a man used to peddle his poems. 

On this same corner I once caught a nihilist smiling,

The apples of his cheeks lifted and salient, round and red,

Chagrined at his grin.

I, too, tire of adherence to traditional appearance. 

Still I'm living with the illusion that talking in a

High-pitched voice makes me a nicer person as if it's somehow

Proof to you that I'm harmless which I'm not by any stretch of

The imagination. 

...

I could flay you alive.

...

I've got insults like

Catapults! 

Reviews

[Marie]

I like this. It says a lot about seasons, about people...