Shepherd’s Pie

All of us, unraveled,

on a park bench eventually.

Maybe. But that shadow’s for later.

Right now, there’s a sheep

in my hair, a galaxy in my shoes.

It’s an echo of New York,

so to open. Meanwhile,

my friends come and go

wondering what art still is

and ever was or might be.

We think it’s a process

of resurrecting every day

to be a new version

of whatever we are.

We go for a beer, but

it’s not as easy as it once was.

Now it’s all experimental. It’s four

small beers and we get to taste

each one and vote for the one

we want to taste forever.

But nothing tastes forever.

Nothing stands the test of rhyme,

especially a bad one, which is also

a pun. Everything goes bye-bye.

Even yon ancient mariner.

“Sorry, my man, I’ve a wedding to get to—”

As for taste, I’ve never understood

taste in the aesthetic sense,

which is obvious. Always drawn

to the gaudy, noisy, messed-up oblivious.

I vote for the beer that’s the most

inexplicable. I vote for the park bench

with the broken back leg,

the overlapping tags of graffiti to read.

Then I go to see some paintings,

but all they are is music,

which I decide on the spot is a bonus.

One of my friends needs urgent care,

so I take him and he’s afraid.

I am also afraid. I am always afraid.

But the sheep don’t notice

my dark-matter shoes,

the laces untied so I’m tripping.

And still I’m on the lookout,

guarding my loves. It’s always

the same, and it’s always

something different. I sit

on the high corner

of the park bench, broken,

and tie the loose ends

temporarily.