The Procession

by grimbeau

Byrdso

 

The pain it appears has passed,

a twisted and not strangulated

abdominal fibre of being,

fleeting, frit, clinging,

nagging little sod.

 

All dead in crash.

I as usual am none the wiser,

interested yet not especially engaged

to task myself too hard (life’s burdensome

enough, my excuse, get out clause – life’s too short).

Who knows what the light will bring?

 

He’s passed again, a quick in and out,

minding his own business,

being as little trouble as.

My head! Doing a tango, having a wobble

at the drop of a hat, hearing pins drop.

 

You know, you know.

Night creatures: silver fish, monopods,

opaque gadabouts – a proper rumpus.

Alexander’s Ragtime Band

cut throats and ruffians,

red and rubber necks, craning,

inching forward,

onward to the din

Slasher and trombone