Summer day,
pavement sizzles,
blacktop oozes back to primal tar,
air so thick it chafes,
nothing fits.
Outside, cars,
like impatient sharks,
cruise for parking spaces.

Along the climate control line
Security patrols
in rumpled shirts,
pants too tight
shoes that pinch
Night sticks slap their thighs
Side arms buckled down.
Serious consumers only.
All others need not apply.

Against the wall,
in no-man’s land
a woman,
wearing all she owns,
holds out a tattered cup,
watches shadows pass her by.

Is it any wonder, tempers fray and
discontent is the default state of mind?
Oh, sure as certain, some one else has got what’s yours.
We learn early
and often,
to the swift, goes the glory and the chance to define the story. Got to grab, snatch it, before it’s passes to another.

So it’s gone and goes,
until, the glare from broken glass and scattered dreams
fragments logic, releasing cause from effect’s constraint,
amid the welling chaos, every smart phone wielding I-reporter
captures story shards bright as lightening bugs in peanut butter jars,
holds aloft their failing flickers,
Modern Merlins with their most unholy grails,
riding the networked mobius strip astride their painted ponies.
Oh, what would good Don Quixote say?

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.

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