the End of March

Hanging out the top
Of the car's window:

Child-locked
Against us,

Half-way down
Half closed.

This too-cold month
Fully screened

Our receiving
A vital dose

Of sustenance that
Winter can't give us.

All of it
Is disgruntled

About not getting
Anything for Easter

But for what
It bought itself.

Drive way gravel
Still frozen

All of them
Alone together.

[One cannot write the epigram]

One cannot write the epigram
Before the epic—"the cart

Before the horse," you know
Just like they say. Where

Pregnant woods prognosticate
On the leitmotif's design.

The spangled thrilling oft upon
Our conversation's mode—I'm wrong.

The rave located in the—.

the Arts

Your mixing metaphors
Team taught—tag team
Tearing them apart.

The wall screen glowing
as she types slowly:
"google map," into
the Google search bar.

We are all tired.
How can I maneuver
my way around lunch?