Raindrops posed tree branches to hunch and closed the sidewalk to allow darkway slivers, at the top of bird feathers, cheers from throats perched atop trimmed hedges and gulped singalongs from regular humans, riding with the windows down and saturating suburbia in repeated pop-melodies.
It goes something like this:
“Everyday, it’s a-gettin’ faster
Everyone said, “Go up and ask her”
Love like yours will surely come my way
A-hey, a-hey hey”
Buddy Holly died staring at an Iowa sunset, promised virgins cursing at stoplights how sleeping eludes the culture of sleeping-to-get-her.
If culture worships to alter the altar of what citizens prompt up on pedestals then their soapbox collapses under the weight of martyrs stepping off their crucifix.
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