The Situation

It's tough, isn't it, star,

to be harangued

by every strain

of brimming heart?

It's hard, isn't it, moon,

when crowds fidget

with their swizzle sticks

as you brighten the bay?

And head, doesn't it hurt

when love ignites

its pesky orbit

and all logic strays?

Hot, isn't it, sun?

Admit it's a relief, shade,

to wear camouflage

while the flamboyant

fade away.

Go ahead, god,

and blame this mess

of blood

and flesh on free will.

That's life, isn't it, death,

when guardrails

along the steep drive home

bristle with wreaths and bouquets?