We Take Leave of Our Senses Under Tents

We get buried under tents in cemeteries, a sensible insurance send off, throwing roses into a hole. At parking lot carnivals in June, I throw rings at impossible duck necks, tommy-gunning pop-up rubber gangsters all for a shot at the giant stuffed cod you never wanted ...under a tent. We got married under a tent. Guests bit into crisp leviathan shrimp, and it was raining good luck rain, so, our tent bet against the weather paid off. We were carnal under a forest canopy before we met, roaring and wild, we kept the creatures up all night; Your awning was sort of a tent: striped in red and white over your upscale catering truck by the upscale curb, you saw me coming before I saw you going. And the rain is deranged and pelting as we gather under tents throwing Kroger roses into a hole. I see them everywhere on my way home from work in the hot summer, the baking tents…bold, festive stripes ripping across the melted asphalt lots, hawking all kinds of hope and fervor, And I am raptured by their retail evangelism, and always come home proudly with that leather ottoman on sale, drastically reduced, the one you always hated, the one that nearly matched the living room couch, and still doesn’t. But in my own defense, my dear, my sweet gone dear, I had taken leave of my senses for a moment, under a tent.