Mauve steel extensions
become sky at twilight
as their tips scrape goose wings.
Feathers litter the ground around the girders,
forming small piles until whooshed away
by indigo breezes from an unknown deity
of incomplete wealth. All mortals quaver, mouths agape,
incredulous when faced with beams of such height
without visible supports.
Each post lives separately from the other,
though all rely on one another for morale
and some kind of root ball structure
that our simian species would do well to emulate.
First draft posted to WHARVED on 11/15/11
Prancy old gillibuddies throw knowledge around like softball medleys–paints display arrangements of pansies unknown to the local eye. Dancing sharpens the highly-regarded nasal passage remedies, whereas shanties never make fine remnants of dipstick ruination. There’s wreckage everywhere and I ain’t got no time for bird sex. “Fancy old patina-laden graham cracker factories have less of a use today than ever before,” Pantsy thinks to himself while milking his goats at least twice a day, unless he’s feeling a tad sluggish.
Antsy Nancy glares defiantly at the bronze statue of Labor Days past while she prays that the latest lancet treats her better. Worse for wear, it’s about time these surgeries start paying their dividends.