It is difficult
to get the news from poems
— William Carlos Williams, Asphodel, That Greeny Flower, 1955
At the front a hummingbird.
In the back yard rabbits and an orderly
line of doves taking turns
at the suet cake.
Bright sun. No wind. And the news about to fight
its way between commercials
to bring a daily sadness
to the screen. The street
slopes quietly down to where
drought begins. A few clouds decorate
the eastern sky, but stay
dry as legislation afraid
to keep guns from the hands of tonight’s
party-goers, who
will be up late to enjoy
the coolest hours, sweat dripping from the moon
and all night stores
aglow beside the rising prices
for gasoline at the pumps outside them.
The loneliest among us
have the late shows to distract them
while starlight shines
on a parking lot hosting
a company of revelers
until good times turn to bad
and the night rains
gunshot with
each rhyming gunshot.
