Poem: Roundabout

Roundabout

Instructional bear sits on a

half log, receiving questions.

No, I have not actually eaten a human.

Ate an arm once, but it was

floating in a river, and, well

Come over here to the dancing.

Slip a buzzbomb into your pocket.

We are tetraglides, horizontals,

pathetic cryogens.

Nothing’s going on but the

parking lot’s full.

Patting a tall dog we nod our heads,

hardwired to the digitalia,

souls nonexistent.

We are only what we buy,

what we use,

an occasional romance.

Little girl, eddy of spazz,

bolts to the bricks, waves us over.

This! Here!

Your shaft of sun.

Bikers drill past.

Stereo drivers hammer

us with boom and crack.

That’s the game:

take something that’s yours and

force it on someone else.

Light the buzzbomb and

shake your ass.

Permission is for amateurs.

Perhaps you could

solve the whole

thing with a

slice of

pepperoni

pizza.

Take a last bite of cheese and regret.

Toss your plate into the trash.

Step outside.

Everything’s going on but the

parking lot is empty.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV