The dogs were first on the scene, first to
look puzzled at the scraps of poetry
flying across the hardwood floor.
Desert lizards let themselves in through
the open window in the back and
slid their way toward a batch of experimental
sonnets that were swirling around a fan.
I was the last to know that my
girlfriend had trashed my bell bottoms,
the last to know that my rollerskates
were still hanging out on the stairs,
the last to know that poetry was making
a comeback among the creatures in the hall.