Fudge Up

Fudge up the works and
sing a Brooklyn song, appropriately.
Divide a day into a pie graph,
just make sure each slice is large
enough to write your name on.
The gift of weather has come upon you.
Then what? A little sunlight dirge,
while the crystal ball gets kicked
around by an awkward, pigeon-toed kid.
Buildings tilt on their foundations
while the Holiday Inn stands ramrod
straight a block from the oily canal.
A ripped sweater makes you punk;
the Met tells us they mean business.
What has become of necessity? Or the quaint
vocabulary that gets us from here
to there and back again? In an effort
to be appear more beautiful and real,
I certainly hope so.