the crabapples in the gutter

by Joseph D. Reich

young frankenstein the play
playing at the perfectly square
old georgian historical brick
theater house in the stars
all snug like a bug in a rug
in cozy town which winds
& goes down & balances
lopsided on the right side
of the creaking crashing
mad wild frolicking frothing
river & happily ever after
headstones in the foothills
of the mountains of the thick
woods of vermont just when
they’re all about to turn lush
& light up in the hush of brisk
blazing foliage & iridescent
clouds like a miracle
like some ethereal
ghostly candelabra
radiating from
the radiant heavens
& everything is being
gobbled up by the gigantic
sunflowers haunted houses
& boxcar diners & pharmacies
& pizza places & firehouses
& gigantic crooked spooky
maples silhouetted
on the corner
& crushed
in the gutter
from the change of weather
& got no need to ever go home
cause it all lasts in the moment
composed of old sentimental
memories & blissful empty
lot of a damaged heart
& just follow that river
& train tracks & corn
field into the sweeping
settling vanishing dusk
the prisons are all lit up
& so are the cafes &
courthouses & capitol
& wonder what the criminals
& madmen are doing right now?
the girl who breaks hearts?
never too far just around
the corner from the covered
& exposed leaky nose bridges
which cross rivers & the seasons
with the sweet scent of chimney
smoke & trainwhistles & steakhouses
through the weather-worn shutters
keyholes of bed & breakfasts
peepholes for holy phantoms
for those who want to get
romantic & wax nostalgic
wife leaves her forgotten
bifocals in the pot-pourri
when she showers
& that’s the best
i guess that can
be expected?

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