So you unzipped your ribs and begged 

the universe to hurl a little glitter in the hole

 

since death has been a real pig lately 

and on the way to see your parents 

 

who’ve stopped critiquing tomatoes, what 

happens is a jam-packed gate with two 

 

gray-haired Italians enthusiastically sucking face 

beside you, the man’s hand inside the woman’s 

 

jeans cupping her butt cheek, and flak-jacketed 

cops clustering to save everyone from some dire 

 

threat with a chocolate hound who wags 

discreetly to remain both professional 

 

and true, while the screen by the bar 

declares You Belong Among the Wildflowers 

 

of the golden hour Santa Monica Mountains, 

and Bruno Mars sings about being locked out

 

of heaven, and tired travelers part for the escaped 

toddler and the man who skateboards with no legs.