The Devil’s Birthday

The old couple

strolls down the riverbank,

staring at the Charles

in amazement of its new glory.

 

This is the Devil’s birthday.

 

There is an over-ripe orange

hanging low in the sky;

the Charles river

is bleeding.

 

A man who’s body

is in the midst of a civil war

peers out of the apartment complex,

at the reddening river,

at the strolling couple.

 

He knows it is the Devil’s birthday.

 

Somewhere in the red coating

reflected on the river

are the rippling dreams

of the man split against himself,

of the elderly couple

nearing divorce,

of all of us.

 

This is the Devil’s birthday.

 

A few red ripples on the water

flare, then disappear,

as red turns orange,

and the dreams in your heart are stolen.

 

Dawns comes late

and the old man can’t

look at his wife,

and the sick man

groans himself awake.

 

The devil’s birthday has

come and gone.

 

The sun is the sun again,

and whatever was invisible

inside all of us

is that much thinner.