Run Track

With whistler from sellers I can’t be
trusting. That’ll get me into some
Trench or ditch or pit. It makes
me sick. Can’t I just go for a walk and
enjoy quiet or the blackbirds diving
at me like a normal Sonoma bloke?
I’m imagining things,
no bothers, actual
collection– damn us poem
sayers. Fallen branches aren’t
that to us. They’re messages, some
blues song or a jazz session or a speech from cloud royals–
Invisible grips that only we understand,
I swear, ask Emerson!
But he’d probably say for me
to defend myself, and if someone asks
for explanation,
they themselves are one of those professional
deviations, no mind
to be paid.
Tied by a know, it’s called expectation to
Newspapers with their classified ads,
Reminding me of what I’ll be doing if
I get fired– or, WHEN.
Rattles, harassed by toddlers or younger,
that’s how juvenile they are with us.
I lose concentration in my pressed jaw
like an incensed swarm– dare me to jump, leap with teeth. I
Will. My branch abandoned, my
tranquil interrupted so I can