Those wacky chicks over yonder asked their ‘subscribers’ about current loves, so I spent all weekend locked in the attic trying to piece together something profound and moving. Having failed, I banged out the following poem last night while watching football.
How brightly burns my love for you?
Though only a friendly platonic love,
Which always complicate
Even the finest friendships
And occasionally result in
Slashed tires or
Your cool October breeze soothes
The relentless backhand of
Summer’s humidity and brings
Egg-flinging skate punks to
My property on All Hallow’s Eve.
Yea, but I do loathe them,
Even to the point of daydreaming about
Hiding in a shrub with a paint gun.
And as I wait for their
Blind entry into the killing zone,
I think to myself, ‘Gosh, what a
Splendid night to teach today’s youth a
Lesson about the merciless sting of
You make the evening lovely:
The crisp air;
The sound of the paintball’s *splat*;
The surprised screams.
Pardon my digression, sweet Autumn, and let
Me sing to you still more of my admiration.
Your presence makes the land beautiful,
Even New Jersey,
And then you tell the trees to get naked
AND THEY DO.
Their striptease blankets my lawn
And brings strangers to my door offering to
‘Blow’ my ‘yard’.
‘Nay, gramatically-suspect yeoman!”,
Scream I, rebuffing their clumsy offers,
For I revere my annual rake time
And will not submit my lawn to gas-powered
Your siren song makes me fat with bisque and pound cake.
Enough with the pumpkin
And the heavy cream
And the cooking
And the baking
And the football
And the drinking.
The subtle chill in the air enhances my abilities at stove and bar,
Leaving my heart and liver to lament their bastard owner.
Let us speak only briefly of the sweet kiss of delicious dark beer
And your heavy-handed demands for its consumption.
Am I obsessed with you,
Comeliest of Seasons?
Although, I did notice Christmas decorations in
Target on August 1st.
I’m not trying to assign blame here, but
Yet how can I stay angry with you, O beautiful Autumn?
You kill me softly with your song.
You tear my heart out with butter-flavored Crisco.
So much pie.
Sir @ October 19, 2009