It wasn’t wet December and a season’s worth
of gray rain when I got my secret wish, but March,
in like a lamb and leaving us half-a-season more,
plus our unemployed bulls rubbing thick skulls,
horns and winter hair upon the plastic pedestal
in their pasture down the road – brittle, sun-faded
to a milky green – foreign obelisk, aboveground
junction box for a hundred tangled, tiny colored-coded
wires wound with stripes like bitter-tasting candy canes.
Medusa’s bad hair day intertwined with wet and lush
fiddleneck and filaree that delivered the dead short
between us and the outside world calling, interrupting
my jam jar glass of red with Robbin in the garden,
in the gloaming, our private, slow train of thought
to wait three weeks before calling Verizon.
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