Rainbows burgeoned over the old apricot
I was watering, showers of tiny red leaves
leaves feigning rejuvenation as I fell
into some weird trance where friends shed
inveterate habits, hobbled along
with canes, comfortable in their flab.
All went fine until their glib reparte
struck home. I lost my bearings.
You were hurt. I took fix after fix
on shooting stars. There was no choice.
I unleashed the hose, let it writhe
across the soggy lawn. Hoisting
my sacroiliac up the tree. Chary of tart
fruit, I gazed with watering eyes
to the isthmus of ocean, aching for an out.
Poetry by George Lang