The Only Thing Poetic About March

by Joseph McCombs

    Neal, d. 1995

We wrote of lions and lambs
in the fifth grade
and the newness of flowers, budding limbs

But nothing buds in the silent room
where words lie dormant, books lie dead
as thoughts unwritten in my head

At breakfast, we sought to recall
one untainted memory, one greeting
that wasn't accompanied by a sigh
(or worse, an explanation)

All falling to the blame of life --
which may be as subtle as a car crash
which may fade in a dorm room's smoky haze
which may hide in the bottles that replace companions
which like a plague may linger --
or not.

March is the season of visionaries-too-late,
who pretend to understand death ("he's in a better
place now") as if he might not have chosen it anyway;
who plant newly budding flowers before granite
somewhere in a field full of rank strangers
and leave.

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