Poems
Driving Past My Ringtone
Yes, my shadow was there.
It was the one in the polka-dot tie and houndstooth steering-wheel.
The sunglasses were its idea and were intended to be a stand-in for
the rear-view mirror until the right radio jingle came along. But it
never
did. So I accept full responsibility for any losses that may have once
been a full wallet. And I also admit that I barely noticed clouds in
the
stare or any unnatural colors that seemed inconsistent in our line of
gaze. By I have to confess, neither one of us was ever aware of horns
blazing when we missed our favorite ringtone and plowed into the
store-front window in my congested bathroom.
Harry Houdini On Holiday
In the poem version about the untied military boots
war breaks out in a virtual car chase allowing
vandals a bumper-sticker of green lights for miles
before the night is lit-up by artillery fire.
Two sacred mounds of prickly hats are blindfolded
then forced to stand before the hangman's noose
where scat looks like a lavish Hollywood movie where
identity theft grows up to be urban blight's stage prop.
The blindfolds don't care. Neither does bird flu. It brings
a twig to the empty c-cup then brides porcupine quills
to boycott any notice of amnesty, so long as those little
metal weighs are still sown in buttons of window drapes.