Handling my driftwood, Dad says
if I hadn’t broke that chunk out
I coulda made-a dugout,
(the shock
remains after
he finishes)
“and took it to sea.”
Not on my watch!
Your client is at the point of,
Let’s say the 90s,
when sitcoms decided they
no longer needed a laughtrack.
Or, say the 80s,
When television decided it
didn’t need to broadcast
everything in glaring Technicolor.
Or, say the 70s,
When music decided that
not everything needed to be
a stereophonic experience.
Or, say the aughts,
When we decided
Simplicity works.
Only this time he can do something about it.
A Bit Further In
I felt lift
the lifting handle move
of a crouch car door grab.
Like I was the tactility-enhanced model
of a spatially normalized dark-explorer.
A voice perked up,
glad for not forgetting the coffee;
Its little ears vanish.
It’s a Concert
In the deep woods,
A few fences down,
Country music plays.
Behind Your House
In the easement (let’s say)
a bicycle wheel is rusting into a splintered utility pole,
as (just for fun) a pile of green glass encroaches
upon (why not) crumbling concrete.