Max’s Tax Laurel Aronian The white-capped mountains bleached Orange beneath, like snow through ski goggles. In December; trees are only green from radiation, The Galaga patterns behind the moon, And stars, too large and dark in the mauve sky. The endless line of street signs, Spiraling into the black like fractals, Forevermore. The red taxes on the dashboard are enveloped Into darkness and swallowed Up in the distorted windshield; I can make anything happen Through this photograph.
But it was May and Max Tax was past, And Jack was mad, so we played Duran Duran. Even though we listened to wolves, the mountains in the sky were just Refractions of light. I remember seeing a line in that smog and Thought the world Was ending. The green grass and yellow signs should have been a comfort but I knew that even after The summer things would be the same. Though it was warm outside, The smell of hay and grass filling my nose, The heavy clouds letting loose Just made me realize I would Never be Here Again
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