Love Poem for Cardinals and Seventy-Year-Old Women

Oh, I have the bare tree.
I know the snow is gonna fall
heavy as buffalo shit to shovel
and fill the yard.

But the winged celebrity is coming.

That apotheosis of arrogant red
is going to arrive. For his haiku moment.
That fucking cardinal is going to arrive
like Josh Groban. Exactly

as Josh Groban always arrives
to massage the desiccated hearts
of the dead and dying seventy-year-old women
who scream his name

and wear lipstick to his concert,

who wear lipstick to their funerals.

That shade of a blushless cardinal
on their lips I want to kiss.

The winter of the soul
has its own fucking trip,

if you are willing to pretend
you are Juliette Binoche

as your liver fails, as your eyes

crack like the tortoise with dreams like these.

So I dream of you.

So my ridiculous eyes crack.

Over here! You! Cardinal! Josh! Please!

Will you sign this birdseed

before you poise in the next tree?