Velleities of May

Assured their deaths were in effect a cure
for what ailed them, they said sure whatever
and signed their names and did unto others.
Or tried to. I’ll start pouring, you say when.
You can’t imagine how many trumpets
thereafter mustered in the forecourt. I admired us 
for taking it on. High command vanished
along with the chattering classes, unwilling
or unable to trace a full arc while hoppers
of rotting grain pouted on the sidings. 
We none of us expected justice from mice. 
Everyone got the memo. Those nearest
shore gathered their thoughts and gave voice
to else statements and faint sprites
we only later understood to be both logical
and a heck of a lot less egalitarian than
anyone knew. People joke about manure.
There’s nothing funny about it. And it wasn’t
so much what we feared as it was a means
of keeping water from flooding the ocean
and the desert from burning the sand.
Yes, we had near misses, but Rick’s bully boys
and a bit of baksheesh got us over the hump.
Predictable crimes chewed up the dreamy glow
adrift among twilight’s traffic lights like— 
well, like apricot mist if I can say it like that—
while we, the pie makers, the sober souls
who gave early and often, caught all the hell
despite what some strangers recalled. Them 
again. The strivers, the whiz kids. Rick said
checking into the clinic a few days late
gave him a real shot in the arm. Ha ha.
But I’m not going to lie, they knuckled down
and literally planted a flag. So badass
and frosty out there—at least at first blush.