The tune of our life has turned—
Once a steady predictable hum,
Now syncopating merrily.
 
Here the steam of eggs and sausage
Drifts past a rocket-making book
Along a table scattered with sisters.
Here hearts left dull and dreary
Find respite in the sight of shoes
Where printed watermelons shine.
 
Here the nonliving roam the streets,
Teem and tumble among the living,
Whistle songs to fortunate souls.
Here cars lose their tyrant rule,
Commanded by an ancient jersey,
Humbled by a glowing man.
 
Here each blaring weekend welcomes
Layers of pine straw and portapotties,
Guiding the fall migration of those
Who come to winter in the world apart.