Poem

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

thoughts

come

unglued.