WHARVED

Designed to Pop

There’s a spring down under the tunnel
made of some metal alloy, designed
to pop under pressure and relieve
the night watchmen of their duties
until the engineers arrive
to reset the whole apparatus.

The purpose of the spring
is not to alert anyone
of imminent danger, but to serve
as an easy way to perpetuate
government contracts, providing easy work
to whomever is lucky enough

to have a brother at the DMV or a sister
on a postal route. Any person with
a connection to city hall in one small way
or another will have job security
for the rest of their life, thanks to
these perpetually-popping springs,
and isn’t that just fantastic?

Swirling in Puddles

If it doesn’t matter much,
we can throw our crusts
into the rain and watch them
get soggy right by the dog
whose house doesn’t have a roof.

Come to think of it, the dog
will try to eat those crusts
before too long, but they’ll fall apart
once they touch his teeth,
slopping on the grass and
swirling in puddles at his feet.

If the dog could talk, he would
probably say how he hasn’t eaten
since dinnertime, and an intact snack
would have been nice right there,
but he understands that life
sometimes doesn’t offer easy rewards.

Salt Spray and Low-Hanging Fruit

Don’t sever all ties
with the teeter totter land
we used to call home,
we may need to return
at some point and beg
to have our jobs back.

Just tell them we’re going
out for a weekend fishing trip.
We’ll actually go fishing at first,
since I know how much you hate to lie,
but after we catch a couple bass
we’ll take off for the tropical climes

where breezes constantly waft
through the air and our hair,
transporting aromas of salt spray
and low-hanging fruit. You can
get to work on that novel
you’ve always said you’re too busy for.

Wouldn’t that be nice? I’ll make sure
we pack enough pens and paper.
Just for God’s sake, make sure
to keep the supplies where the water
can’t get at them, or we’ll have to
double back and risk being caught.

Your Life’s Comfort

Half off everything in the store
is what you told me, and that’s
what I expect from this event.

Either you don’t understand me
or you want me to do something
that will compromise your life’s comfort.

What does that mean, you ask?
Well, I could do any number of things, really.
I could take a station wagon and park it
outside your house, blaring the horn
for six hours straight.

Sure, the neighbors would complain,
but the cops wouldn’t do anything about it.
You see, I’m a friend to law enforcement,
and when I tell them that you pulled
a bait and switch, they’ll let me blow that horn
all night long if I want to.

Politically Correct Time

I’m tethered to this
tomato-making harlequin,
as though I deserve
this form of punishment.

I didn’t even do anything
other than invent
my own form of potato masher.
What’s wrong with innovating

a new design
for starch delivery?
I think this government
has really got to get a grip
on itself and forget the politics

that brought us
to such a politically correct time.
Next thing you know, someone’s
going to be making cracks

about the Great Potato Famine
and drinking pints of Irish whiskey
as they stammer all over the floor,
filibustering for as long
as they can stand upright.

Gliding in Surrender

I dealt with the beltway
on my own terms, and it took
to the sky as does
a bird of grand proportions

(though not so grand as to
impede flight), streaking
across the blue hazards
on a trip to its Winter home
away from home, gliding
in surrender to the updrafts
and balmy climes to come.

Under the Roots

Never get an arrogant person
in your headlights, or you’ll
be looking at some mean times
ahead of you. Scarcity and heavy
lumbering grizzly bears will find you
before long, and several elves
will beckon you to their tree hideaway.

They’ve dug out an apartment complex
under the roots, with accommodations
befitting a first-rate journalist
on a business trip. You won’t mind
going down there, but you’ll wonder
when you can come back out.