By Charles Springer

What if Venus and Saturn, and Mars along for blush,

did meet up that night outside delivery?

What if all that the parents had in the world

was the donkey? Be assured, a Cadillac of donkeys.

And what if the parents themselves were drop-dead

gorgeous with perfect SATs and Harvard behind them?

What if the inimitable Three Tenors showed up

with the sounds of glass breaking behind them

and smelling like the canals of Venice?

Indeed it would be a night to remember,

everyone standing around wondering

if this new little comet would ever shut up,

if Earth could stand still long enough for a picture,

if up is verily where we go from here.


Charles Springer has degrees in anthropology and is an award-winning artist, having lived much of his life in Cincinnati, Philadelphia and New York. He currently eats, sleeps, bicycles and writes from the family homestead in the mountains of northcentral Pennsylvania where he earns a living in advertising and is constantly trying to keep his barn from falling down. Over the years Charles has enjoyed publishing in Apalachee Review, Boxcar Poetry Review, The Cincinnati Review, Faultline, Heliotrope, Oak Bend Review and Oxford Magazine, among others. New poems are forthcoming in Sawbuck and Avatar Review.

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