Sonnet: I Blame You, Lorraine
by John Kendall Hawkins
Hope is the thing with feathers Dick Cheney
just shot in the face. Sorry, friend, he says,
kneels, and picks up the sweet disposition,
a persona, non gratis, with vision
that does not end with darkness in high rez,
and hands a worldly gaze back, now grainy.
Despair is the bat out of guano hell
that brings dis-ease and viral YouTube clips
of your memories, monetized: Bogie,
she always gets on the plane, old fogie.
Blow a whistle, Lauren says, you got lips.
You go to kiss, hear mourning's wake-up bell.
I'll be waiting in the new day's gusty drizzle,
pressed to my head a water gun pizzle.