Happy, Our Holiday

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No, honey leave the pictures, such a day,
Stop now. Forgetting me, you go by snowy woods
With undone dos, you push back and away.
The wagon’s wood paneling, home soon, maybe Monday?
Lunch sacks filled the seats, bags of foils and ribbons.
Be safe waves from the porch. Call soon, from the door, inching in.
Far and still miles to go for hours in traffic, in cold,
Of course it’s the weather, our ever season jokes retold.
Taking longer routes to savor day’s last light, your
Good behavior rewarded, we finally turned right.
Turn to arms ready for you, holding hands lit with candles.
Flickering and waxy, wick’s glowing halo blue,
Walk on too slowly towards the crowded mantle.
Oh, if not for that old home.

Next to the heat, slippered and robed, indecisions, made alone.
Arguing: revisions or mistakes? Taciturn remarks about cars, or
About the years the Mustangs strode through town.
Carbon emissions, dating, four on the floor,
All bits and stirrups, shoes clambering,
Upright models, proud dads, rough riders saddled up.
Still moving, they knew someone, but not you. Knowing not to stop.
Through their produced sounding recordings you think you know them now.
Though science told you, that’s impossible, yet
Not improbably how.

Along we rode, a dark-handed wind pushed us uptown, much
Deeper than we ever thought, in the white water they nearly drowned.
Snowed-in yield and stop signs, ice dripping like butchers knives.
We make of love just what we need and more, our story pleased the town.
With night and rhythmic light it became easier to see the wives.
Show them honey, show how we slow to stop, to go, on we go…
Spring sighs with black pitch tar, steam and rising streams,
Our guts overpilling with laughter splitting seams.
Yet certain of the weather, a moments motives you know to go.
When Minnesota blood runs south by the mouth of the great
Mississippi River, her byways and curved embankments sweet
With such late dates.

Reminiscing, your mind spits out memories as icy precipitation.
Our God instructs with tiny gifts, we take in anticipation.
The sole barer of pain, like a choral angel singing off key,
What saved your fall? What shines of shame in bars of gold, so disgraceful,
Frantically your air pounding fists whip to hate the truth.
All those heavenly men answer merely to save your face,
Full of knowledge, aging faithful barrels, full with your unfiltered wisdom.
A sick old king left us with only a word so random,
Maybe rehearsed, possibly untrue, told by his biographer —
(Well-known and only a provocateur).
Leaving not a single clue.

Weather and evening corralled the horses inside,
The engines idled, big girls gasped, and awkward boys cried.

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