Friday, January 6, 2012


Red Rubber Ball

A cure
or the way forward
through thorny negotiations,
a plan to feed starving thousands bob
in the moat that rings my fortress of sleep. I catch a glimpse,

stumping across
the drawbridge to the
other side where dreams
go to die or, at best, languish
on the couch, glued to cable.  Like Lot’s wife Bev,

I pause
in the middle
for one look back, helpless as
fortress, moat and stuff afloat vanish, all of it
forgotten by the time I reach the scorched earth on the other 

side save
for the syrupy melody
and lyrics of Red Rubber Ball, The Cyrkle,
summer 1966, a stump of salt the better fate.  Doomed,
I drink coffee and look out on the feeders to a plague of Farfisa

organ and
plangent harmonies.  A male
Cardinal averts his gaze while I silently croon
“now I know you’re not the only Starfish in the sea,
if I never see your face again, it’s all the same to me”, and curse

snickering gods,
45’s and

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