Yes, But... Poem by Morgan Michaels

We dream of holidays
enshrinements, investitures
giallo Mardi Gras's
Grand Entrees, happy endings,
ticker tape parades and larks ascending
in sun-dimming gyre
as the bells peal noon;
motorcades crawling slowly along
sky-lit corridors of days without clouds;
dragons, their surprisingly red blood
spotting the dust of the ground
hacked dead, on litters borne, flung down
before a grateful and munificent king;
former foes, now bound
lash-driven, to the capital
and the speedy righting of each wrong.

What rot!
Holidays- is only Tuesday, come again.
Mardi Gras, the week-end.
The yawning grave, our likeliest shrine,
our best investiture is Calvin Klein;
our grandest entry, via the front door;
and no ending is ever completely happy.
Sorry, Charlie,
sometimes it rains-
that's what God gave us umbrellas for;
parades are for astronauts, which you're gladly not;
our motorcades flash along bicycle paths;
our dragon is that squirrel on the lawn;
a wife, our reluctant fealator,
our creditors our fiercest foes
and our injustice just a point of view.