rites of spring
i sit here
hearing birds chirping
the rustle of trees
feel the soft air
coming from the ocean
bath in warm light
still see the sun at seven o’clock p.m.
like a fat ball of gas in the sky
reflecting off of windows
and the remnants of dirty snow
chase the tussle of winter
as it loosens its grip
think about rome
and young women in short skirts
hear the people outside
talk the dumb talk that keeps them alive
as i drink boatloads of vodka
to the sound of every fucking dog
barking its return
leaving their mounds
of incredible shit
outside
my living room
window.
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