It's always on Sundays
when I remember revenge
movies of my youth. Perhaps
the quiet of the day reserves
a judgment on beauty, or
my adaptation is inaccurate—
all those Dirty Harry-types
fighting for one sidewalk.
Sunday—a retreat from
our jazzy age. Try to line up
all the players, as I do,
try the inevitable and metered
piano score, a note for each footstep
as in angry cartoons. I myself
have cheered for the fire to start.
I've sat in theaters, sparking
a doobie, shouting over
opening chords. Children
and would-be children, prepare
your emeritus awestruck gaze
for the return of heavy metal,
for headphone descents on the rug,
prepare for the end of this
preppy harangue.