It’s tough, isn’t it, star,
to be harangued
by every strain
of brimming heart?

It’s hard, isn’t it, moon,
when crowds fidget
with their swizzle sticks
as you brighten the bay?

And head, doesn’t it hurt
when love ignites
its pesky orbit
and all logic strays?

Hot, isn’t it, sun?

Admit it’s a relief, shade,
to wear camouflage
while the flamboyant
fade away.

Go ahead, god,
and blame this mess
of blood
and flesh on free will.

That’s life, isn’t it, death,
when guardrails
along the steep drive home
bristle with wreaths and bouquets?