he sneaks in the swinging metal gate,
closes it behind him, others are ahead
and not bothered by his entrance.

his head swivels, settles on a bull nettle
and its yellow flower, needing a lapel
and matching cumberbund, civilization

is said to be just over the rise.
better to take small steps
not long ones.

rather catch the white-tipped clover,
shooing the bees with one hand, the other,
pull rabbits out a hat's brim, take a bow.

lie down in a soft patch of green, rest.
at length, rise and wander about, looking
for that rock, that stone that's a diamond.

past bois 'd arc copse, over the hump into
a free land, no fences--expansive futures
lie fucund, already burping lively motion.

you see him, he's back at the gate of entry.
the gate-keeper inquires as to his health
and the enjoyment of the new generation ride.

shuffling the deck, he says pick a card, any card.
i pick the one he want's me too, the game is over,
we just go through the motions of life's evening.

a traveling snake oil salesman, i've become. dreams
for sale, used ones half-price we take trade-ins.
a sign on the outskirts of my heavy heart: for rent.

05/13/2008

Posted on 05/13/2008
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan