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extra, extra!
read all about it!
the convicts are on the lam
& i’m stuck in 1821, barefoot
in a field, a piece of straw out my mouth,
a pouch-a tobaccy in hand,
leaning up against a tree, the brim
of a hat covering my eyes, just for a little
shut eye. but the rest won’t come:
i am awakened by yawn after yawn
as the birds chirp
and the trees sway to distant melodies.
yet here it is quiet—the white noise
of the 21st century evaporated, the
incessant flibbertigibbets dispersed.
still i cannot escape the labyrinths of my mind
i’m taking the wrong turns off paths
i’ve traveled for eternity.
i am resigned to thinking
today’s just a harbinger of epiphany,
we are just a smorgasbord of insignificant cogs
& though precisely that we may be,
we’re still capable of drowning the captain
in even the calmest of waters.
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