Bonfire of the Cryptobourgeoisie
The turqoise water an invitation
hard to decline, the clockwork
tides slow metronomes.
The group around the bonfire
fires off bon mots, their laughter
raucous, covetous, spiteful.
They hedged their bets and lost;
past performance not a promise.
The curtain rose, fell, fell farther.
Their fire’s fuel is gasoline,
its petrol stench a nuisance.
Its coals the color of rubies.
When the wind shifts west to east
they gasp, the smoke a hazard,
a currency they can’t grasp.
Waves lap the shore of the beach.
The fire falters, fades, noxious
memory that can’t be erased.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Doves and Roses
Her first text describes her hair as
a mess of doves and roses, but her
second insists she means doves
that don’t fly, their wings clipped,
and roses that don’t bloom, their leaves
paler than the screen into which
her words march in her final message,
the one that says she’s leaning hard
against a brick wall in a dark bar, as if
words can stand for anything and not fall.