The Dwindling Lines of Late January
Even at Epiphany, she continued to dazzle and delight.
Now, after a run of not even six weeks, here she has come
to rest -- wrapped in a pathetic shimmering, black girdle
and nestled in a bed filled with regrets and bad memories.
January is fading to February, the naked limbs
reaching towards dark, smudged windows.
A lonely satellite dish reaches towards the heavens,
dutifully searching for the informational and
entertainment beams its family so fiercely desires.
Our city is showing its age, its face marred by the
dark lines of the past in this, the wireless age.
The lines darken even the hill where they found
Patty Hearst 35 years ago in a bungalow kitchen where
she was sipping green tea and eating lemon wafers.
Many a drama ends with similar whimpering
banality. The lonely duo of chimneys grimace at the
heavens, ready to spit out smoke were there any
remaining embers to fuel their eager, empty lungs.