In the Wash

That gruesome scheme of the crest-and-hump crowd
Filling in wished-away quirks outside no lines
Nights in the hallow suds
Trembling hands pocketed for no further absolution
Your downing’s just another’s fitful rise
Too temperamental for plastic artifacts
Always affected and in constant constraint

Beside the bedside there is a puffy dust
Lint’s justice bitten and meted in

Pour the coffee
Dear
We’re seven haircuts past forgiving
And nobody’s tearing up over your yearbook photo
On the terrace
Wearing black-and-teal sneakers
Or pasting tacky pearls on Jesuit robes
In the calibrations that never stick
We’ve parlayed our better times
Into shorts and sunglasses and spent penny pensions
While the cowboy music stirs us like whipped-up cocktails
And calm’s its only down
Makes a like fall apart for a new like to take its place