Greyhound

Your Mileage May Vary

Seeking to imprint our values
On others, we turn to the telling of a tale
Not a feather stuck in some svelte cap
Twisted to resemble macaroni
But an origin myth

Involving Greyhound buses, boats
Bad omelettes, wierdly slick
Gaberdine slacks, saddle shoes
And the rolled-up shirt sleeves
That seemed to signify assumed opulence
It was their story
And we inhabit it now


As a chalky narrative to turn
Mr. MacGoo into Bill Holden
An alternative truth to explain
Away a loss we cannot understand
A truth we will not see
A karma that might carry us along
As we dream the sleep of saints

The strands become frayed
And the arc of the story begins
To unravel
We interject the happily ever afters
As they appear on the horizon
Faint, gauzy, though still precious and true
Editing on the fly
For tempo, humor, rhythm and tone
The melody lingers even after
The coat hangers
Bent, clipped, twisted and torn
With their misshaped form
Give way to a garment
That can offer no warmth
Little in the way of style
And a punch line that now
Reads more like a nudge

Radio waves tapping my soup spoon
Glowing, igneous
Loud thumping hose
Sprayed over a preferred
Pastiche of plastic

Monsanto
On line two

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