Lonely

One wonders what is happening with our girls,
so young to throng to counselors, so beautiful
in flight. One longs for the days of Teddy Grahams,
bears with arms up and legs closed, bears with legs
open and arms down. One of my last acts
was spraying the accumulation of wasp nests
under the carport, their black rain in rolling
waves of heat, writhing on the concrete
under the dripping nest they'd dedicated themselves to
all spring. One is amazed at her impossibly narrow
waist. One Easter I didn't buy Jesus on the cross,
the water flowing from his side still not quenching
the parched earth. One can be proud trading a doover
for a thingamabob. One more fetch and your dog
will get in his 20,000 steps, mostly back and forth.
One can ponder anything long enough to be amazed,
like how wasps make their papery palaces by chewing
wood fiber into pulp. One would have to eat sand,
gravel and cement then drink water to shit concrete.
The one who plots evil involving tar and feathers
walks home to a cauliflower Christmas ornament.
One world with children on the kitchen floor
banging pans gives way to candles flickering during epiclesis,
the polite way cats go away to die.