Jim Moore USA Birthday This one has come in quietly—slipping in The way a shark’s fin cuts through the water. It’s like that, a room in silence Devoid of the noise and all the good wishes, Counting up the years in its one full breath Before the world becomes mine again— As if to say, no, it’s not your time, It’s not your time just yet. The Proper Audience They should be almost like taste testers, The good ones cleansing their palette Before they go on to savor that next line— Dividing up sentences like cantaloupe quarters, Pulling apart sections down to the last orange slice. It’s there, at the core, Where they’ll begin to linger over its distinct flavor— Delight in first burst of irony That leaves them craving more. Aftermath Once the water receded—its shallow pools drained And temporary islands dry, There was only the thought of rescue— For the soap dispenser high on the knoll Washed clean of the hands it once soaped with, The pull-tab can and the blue bee’s wax Container that found their way to shore, We walk among them, calling out the different names, Filling our bags with the survivors as we go.
Copyright, Jim Moore
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