State Poetry

The mayor couldn't be here, but he sends his grand whereases, and his best regards take their places in the rear. Another year closes with a villanelle's razzmatazzes.

Outside, in sunlight, with their stunted squash and radishes, farmers wonder what the going rate is for crop failure and despair. The mayor couldn't be here but he sends his grand whereases.

In the legislative chambers with their dactyls and caesuras the local poet laureates sing in praise of cheese and beer. Another year closes with a villanelle's razzmatazzes.

On the South Side, poverty makes another of its passes. A bag lady lifts her breakfast from a trash can on the square. The mayor couldn't be here but he sends his grand whereases.

Now the poetry club presidents show their poems off like badges to the hard-of-hearing, blue-haired citizens gathered here. Another year closes with a villanelle's razzmatazzes.

No one mentions Nicaragua, acid rain, cocaine, or Star Wars, as the couplets and quatrains maintain a pleasant atmosphere. The mayor couldn't be here, but he sends his grand whereases. Another year closes with a villanelle's razzmatazzes.

— Ronald Wallace

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