There’s a sadness to last Sunday’s Times,
still unread, now heaped with junk mail.
In its youth each story held such promise,
prompting that caffeinated vow, I’ll get to it—
the class of lie we feed ourselves daily.
But no, these sections will not be read.
In Style you’re not going to recognize
the candid Hamptons shot of Joan LeBeau,
her post-wedding dazzler of a smile
a half-beat behind that same breezy hair—
Gemini Joan, still with her signature wattage,
the energy you circled, fed upon for years,
the news that Joan has married up
arriving not so much as a shock
than as confirmation of assumed grief.
But you never saw her picture, did you?
No, you cleared the table, buried the paper,
covered all with layers of cans and wine bottles
before dragging the recycle bin to the curb
where, come Monday, Andres of the heavy gloves
will dump Joan’s now Chianti-stained smile
for it’s all pulp to him, all dead weight.
And when Andres bends low for the quick snatch,
the agony of a right-eye-socket hangover
will rebound with that cruel post-tequila throb . . .
what demands the ancient question:
How will I make it through this day?
