Alan Britt

(R.I.P: 12/8/1980)

You can tighten green drawstrings,
cuttlefish cauliflower, plus
various shades of artichoke & mango,
but sooner than later you’ll need
indigo, magenta, solar flares
to combat those pesky mosquitos
symbolizing what you expected
but feared, disappointing life
cemented beneath safety deposits
yellowed by neglect, by familial
& non-familial crises, poverties
impossible to imagine.

Still, time sends its vermilion howl
through cactus, platinum coyote
signaling shift of shades that resemble
an empathetic fate, after all, & not this
vile, distasteful creature attempting
to disguise itself as Riding Hood,
Hansel, Cinderella, Alice, or that
mournful sleight-of-hand rocker
warning us ages ago that life is
what happens to us while we’re busy
making other plans; yes, you & I
knew, that’s why we cradled guitars
& gel pens ergonomically between
index, middle & rings honoring dignity
for the universe, pretty much.