Just as I was thinking vaccine won’t
make people bulletproof, the morning news
exploded on the door with the report
a single-barreled shotgun makes. I’ve tipped
the paperboy. This must be his revenge
for having to get up before the dawn
on, let us say, his birthday, for his run.
I hope his parents don’t give him a gun.
He isn’t ready. Papers strew the lawn,
clip hedges, deck the miniature Stonehenge
our neighbor calls a fence, have even slipped
into the gutter’s downspout. It’s good sport
retrieving them; his bad aim I excuse.
But gift him with a .22? Please don’t.
The Venus of Transit
We spied her on the el one day
And tried to catch her eye,
But she got off at Kirk and High.
Alas, we had to stay
Aboard the train and speed to work
Where, for the next eight hours,
We lolled in thralldom to her powers,
Minds stuck at High and Kirk.