rework

Red Rubber Ball

A cure or a way forward, a plan

to feed multitudes or tweeze out

peace in our time bob in the moat

that rings my castle of sleep. 

Over the drawbridge I stagger to where

dreams go to die by a thousand cuts

from the keen rays of dawn, steal a glimpse

back over my shoulder like Lot’s wife

only to watch them turn to brimstone

before my eyes, all except, that is

Red Rubber Ball, summer 1966

The Cyrkle’s one big hit. 

I drink my coffee gazing out

on the feeders to a biblical plague

of Farfisa organ under three-part harmony.

A cardinal averts her gaze while I mouth

the words, incantation of the helpless

“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

something, something, something

da da, da da, da da

the morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball.”

a simile that’s held up rather well over the years

three minutes and a hook that endures.