Commute Epithalamium

The skyline arches toward evening,
a tall shudder. Even that breeze knows
to wait the sky’s salmon light before tossing peppertree
tresses over the bungalows.

In all the front yards, the boys and girls play melodrama,
the ghosts play boys and girls

and frenzy collects the suburbs
in cloverleaf arms.

Tonight, the most precious touch comes
distant. Not April’s immediacy, when drunk was its own reward.
The end of spring craves patience: long wait at the crosswalk,
slow drive up the avenue. In the yard,

the boys and girls play staring,
the coy ghosts in their felt hats,

and in the business park, the flagstones
warmed by lamps, the pavement wills
the little red rose bush closer,

a delirium that stumbles the velvet bee
from his velvet bed, and leaves him breathless,
shaking on the walk after dark.