c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-25)
A breath of edgy, arctic air
A buzz of voltage in the electric chair
A spritz of gasoline sent by the fuel pump
A wafting essence, ebbing from the garbage dump
These things are signs, oft ignored
By thinkers talking of being intensely bored
A mandrake oddly of no use
A detective lost on a hunt for clues
The snout of an anteater, plunged in dirt
A physician asking, ‘Where does it hurt?”
The cavalcade of purpose does not cease
While I make a meal of chicken fried in bacon grease
A major-league pitch, sent high and hard
A shower of stones tossed across the side yard
A fist raised along with challenging words
A seagull’s cry is easily heard
But I can guarantee that some will declare
That there was no sound from under the stairs
Quirky quarks defy description
A police constable says, “Assume the position!”
Hands crossed, back against the wall
A moment of pause in between summer and fall
I thought that, it must be a dream state
Dusty fingers from chalking the slate
Dipped in oil, to cleanse old sins
Knocked about, like static bowling pins
There was a crash at the corner traffic light
Someone missed out on a turn to the right
Now there’s a trail of scattered debris
From the intersection at Route 83
Hail! Hail! The gang’s in charge
Steering this ship of sods like a tugboat and barge
A floating mass of castaway cares
Soon to find its way to a graveyard, somewhere
What isn’t seen can be conveniently ignored
A patch of mud, clinging to the running board
Spit on and laughed at, just for fun
That is the fate, inherited by one
A kind of herding for cattle and sheep
Whenever such acts are lawfully meek
At first it seemed to be an identity, mistaken
But then I realized that my photo had been taken
Looking both ways at the hotel curb
Under a sign that read, ‘Do Not Disturb!’
I didn’t bother to ask about getting a room
I knew better than to perch on a mushroom
That spot was taken, quite long ago
By people of a better breed than I’ll ever know
A crow calling from a cloudy sky
A crack of thunder when the ground is dry
A professorial prod to think on my own
A bogus solicitation, texted to my cell phone
I yawn while wishing to see my bed
The flickering bulb turns smoky, and dead
Throw the switch, let the watts take hold
Flesh on fire, exit the soul
I tried to avert my eyes, but saw the event
A passion play, under a circus tent
It made me tremble, stumble, and shake
Like the sound of a rescued bird, pulled from the clay
Going away... far, far away...
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