A credo mislaid

A CREDO MISLAID

Not this day or that

or even a day in spring

when I might sing

or dance three—legged across the floor

hailing the end of the night

as another eve of

hedged bets,

Not even a month of Sundays

could cajole easy praise for

proper nouns naming roads

that honor killers

stitched together with

the cheapest-oar

the pins won’t stick,

the alibis won’t adhere

to St. Peter's beard,

Never in the lightest years

would I dream denying the

truth of a

small flower blooming across the street

from a three car pile—up:

Irony is cheap

when the market bears a grudge.