A Poetry Series: Background Noise II

Someday, Cynic
by Ariel Sullivan

It is nothing like polka—
less feverish, impulsive.
Someday is a strange dawn,
a slow rouse, a forefinger
coasting verse.

It is always in mourning,
a ghost poet whose eyes
are heavy in the winter.

A charming coma with
electric lips and a haunting
smile. It douses you in a green fire
Varda becomes verde and in the hours
from 5 to 7, it drinks palm wine.

Someday takes residency
in my head, entertains guests
with the finest Pyrex, fills their
cups with grandeur.

Its half-life is never
and is always unimpressed.