444 Readings | 2 Ratings

Conventionally

the shriveled balloons
bounced along the floor
in front of push-brooms, surfing

along on a growing wave
of spent confetti and
streamers. the occasional crumpled nametag,

empty cup, or laminated
sign drowned in that sea, too—
“Colorado,” “Iowa,” “Ohio.” a few

men in lime-green jumpsuits shuffled
their way across the convention
center, one sweep at a time,

until the swell of garbage finally
crested against the grey bins
that waited, purposefully,

at the foot of the stage.
from the back of the room the red,
white, and blue bunting looked

festive and opulent as the silk
of a starlet’s dress. but,
as the workers stuffed the ribbons

into the rolling tubs with the rest
of the refuse, the men could tell
the bunting was clearly cut from the same

cheap, synthetic stuff as any child’s
Wal-Mart Halloween costume,
and had lasted nearly as long.



                                             ____



                            August’s last peaches
                                       dissolve into grass with a
                                  drunken buzz of wasps
Posted 09/28/12
Comments (1)
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"along on a growing wave/of spent confetti" and here it begins to wander on a farewell to these girls and boys and horizons elsewhere... if it meant that much to us these concerts would last all night with songs and eyes and smiles that are never left in the rain held by hands and joyless hearts that miss guitars and pianos and if one glass of whiskey meant a lifetime of cigar smoke and Tom Waits then sit me closer to the stage where everything disappears... ...................................................................... great work Travis! I just had to write something too.
10/07/12 9:43pm