If I Were Writing
the Horoscopes
I’d need 144 homing pigeons,
twelve for each sign in the zodiac,
flapping in with news, a miniature scroll
in a miniature tube.
You’d sit by the windowsill, sipping your coffee,
reading it next to a pigeon companion,
and while the sun poured down, or the rain did,
you’d think, “This is nice. I like that horoscope man. . . .
If I ever find out who he is,
he’s going to get kissed.”
Then all day the wind would be a jukebox
playing music from your sixteenth summer.
And the moon would greet you in the evening
so you’d never be alone.
