Poem: Collision

Collision

Serenity in a box,

Carnie Stratton treads the boardwalk,

flipping taffies, duke of dandy,

cormorant of the soul,

cheesemaker to kings.

He stops and sniffs the air.

Three football fields far,

a very small man steps to the

planks, red Ray-Bans intended for glory.

He applies sunscreen to his head,

a coffee-colored bowling ball,

ripples his abs at a pack of

juveniles who giggle.

A certain thing quivers the ionosphere.

He paces forward.

Carney passes the bumper cars,

chewing on a pretzel,

when he spots the disturbance:

a lime-green Speedo, advancing

toward him like a low-lying Frisbee.

A seagull lands on Carnie’s shoulder,

holding a lit cigarette. Carney swaps him

for a chunk of pretzel.

Sunnyvale Shorty stops and squints.

Nice bird.

Thanks.

Shortie reaches into his Speedo and

extracts a golf ball.

We gonna do this thing?

Nobody’s stoppin ya.

A game of miniature golf may

not mean the universe, but

prelude is everything.

Only we decide what’s trivial.

The rest can go to a

hot blue Hades.

Carnie takes a final puff and

crushes the butt on a mermaid’s tail.

I’ve always thought that Shorty was

kind of an obvious nickname.

Shortie smiles.

I got no complaints.

It’s the truth.

He pocks the ball toward

Neptune’s Castle. It comes out the

other side and brushes the hole,

as close as wish is to want.

At the tip of Antarctica,

an iceberg breaks free.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV