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.