Is that no one has yet offered to fund
my genius thoughts, like the machine
that can turn wine to water, can drain
the countryside of Rhone & Chablis
& the whole of this horrid blooming valley.
Another: that in the midst of gunfire
you can deploy a bubble of joie de vivre,
your attitude remaining thusly you can pick
flowers from the craters, hot shells turning
into generous notions as they penetrate
your sphere. That jacket really suits her
is how the impact feels as a sniper
erupts in profanity two football fields away.
The way she descends a staircase,
one foot trailing the other, is a thing
that could be improved. Imagine heft,
momentum, the ergonomics of the handrail
slide & proceeding tumble, the absolute
superiority of as the crow flies. Skipping
to the end has never been a better option.
Look, here it is right now. It is sitting
by the hearth, checking its watch, saying
your sister has been home this whole time,
can’t you see how selfish you’ve been?
Andrew McAlpine is a writer and teacher living in South Deerfield, MA. You can read his poems in the Atlas Review, the Curator, and Route Nine Magazine. He is a member of the Connecticut River Valley Poets’ Theater.