It's warm this year for late March.
The mosquitoes have hatched
and the mysterious downtown gnats
have moved in. Local criers prematurely whimper
that the Tinkers might return early, too.
Town girls traipsing round in butt hugging short shorts
inciting judgment and fury from the new mothers out
pushing baby carriages in defense
against the onslaught of middle age
and distracted husbands.
Fathers of teenage daughters
drink heavily bewaring nightmares
of early grandchildren
and preternatural impotence.
No one has started mowing. Yet.
But that is simply a matter of time.
Elsewhere in the county,
the agribusiness barons fine tune
their seasonal plans for conquest.
The ground barely froze,
and is pliable to the plow
like some recently wed rape victim.
The small farms prepare for the open air markets,
make sure to guard against the strong winds
and genetically modified corn seeds
that sneak into their fields –
following the pattern established by nature
before the CEO of Monsanto was born.
Carnival barkers of unforeseen future events
talk casually of increasing ocean temperatures,
melting ice caps, the cost of gasoline.
Conservative church biddies blame the President.
From here in the coffee shop,
where I sometimes sit and dream,
I imagine meeting you on the sidewalk
after returning from another long journey.
We hug with less tension. You laugh at my beard.
We talk about having coffee and almost forget,
for a moment, the onslaught of weather
that drove me out in the first place.