Answering a strange question

Weeklong rain has rinsed
the last remains of joy
off of the country,
cars drift through the streets
with tanks that no one filled for days
owing to blocked refineries

Gazing out my office window,
I notice the dirty panes,
the soaked walls on the other side,
and the small snail sliming up its way
towards the rooftop…
the glistening trail it leaves
could be the shape of a dandelion

Then I am asked to to send
twelve posters of the new Versace perfume
to a Polish client via Wetransfer,
and when the browser window opens,
who would stare at me but an old lady
wearing glasses and a blue suit:
she’s surrounded by uncounted
open drawers in which lie
hundreds and hundreds
of colourful macaws and budgerigars,
but all stiff and stuffed;
the caption says ‘Smithsonian’

I’ve caught a cold last Saturday and sneeze
and rummage in my bag for hankies,
and the sky outside remains the same
and vast expanse of lead and crows,
that makes me rather feel like
lying down in a puddle
and disentangle myself from all this

and yet, to answer your question, Mr Lowell,
this is a day in June, you see? –,
a day in June with absolutely nothing rare about it

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Answering a strange question