I see a picture
of me on the milk carton
with another boy
so is everyone
looking for me, I'm right here
way out in left field
even if John Smith,
the grounds keeper, said little
to nought to no one
even if his wife,
the naive, lonesome Dawn Smith
appeared not so coy
as a devious,
diabolical angel,
fallen with singed wings
pretending to be
good, honest and true, a lie,
I now know they wield
insight into death
as a plaything of children
who stare at the sun
causing the image
of that vast sphere to turn blue,
what machinations
to place little boys
deep beneath a baseball field,
where everyone sings
unsung praise for God
and country, viewing the flag
ripple on the pole
rip me a new hole,
where I may rest in peace, know
there is a tunnel
even as John Smith
drives a lawn mower above
me, dark as a mole
objects I can see
with a flashlight, my dad called
a torch, to funnel
fortune to this room,
where I can hear the crowds cheer,
under foundations
No comments:
Post a Comment