In these grand, headline days
of lurid, day-glo cumuli
thrown up by muffled noises-off;
of their late reports
bounced between horizon and ionosphere;
of the eye-witness footage
speaking of the human limb ripped off
and showing the oil-dark pool of it
treacling in a gutter,
flickering on-off, far-near
flickering in every suburban nook;
at times like these
it's nice to have a man like him
put thick black frames around his eyes
straighten his laundered apron
lean over the counter
goggling like his magic bottled lollies
pop a gob-stopper on my
stretch-please tongue,
and swear on the burden of his sorrow
like unto no other's sorrow
that he can't guarantee the sky won't fall tonight.
He reaches up and pats my downy head,
my balding pate.
Giggling, I suck blood-streaked sugars.
He assures me that I am entitled
to a little sweetener
in these doubtful days.