Aphorisms for the Alewife Bus Terminal
Memoir is a pair of sunglasses
for the near-death experience. A forlorn
tabloid fetches only faked pejoratives.
Queue for the Veterans Hospital
and there, only muttering chieftains
will query the daughters of Down syndrome.
If a hairdo turns bitter,
revoke its license.
The hands of a sleeping benchwarmer
will not soften in salted water.
What is a crossword but a frenzy
of mimics? What is concrete
but a lack of prism? Not only here
do little tears of widowers
fish through their expiration dates
in earnest of eternity.