1 hour ago
Merry Go Round
Everyone but me was happy
quarantine was over. The zipper of the desert highway
tapped a vein and ran again, red and yellow poppyseeds
packed full of living flesh. I’d been watching the city
sitting on a little pile of rocks, feeling sick about the growing stream
of human traffic. Fourteen meters up the road, a Shepherd
dripping from the jaw, one leg tucked like a folding chair
or heron underneath. Her eyes unpacking mine
the way a baby looks at you. A bad decision chased a steak
or similar exotic dope, the feathered scent of fried potatoes
dipped in cedarpine had carried her up to this carousel
that seems to keep accelerating, where the horses
roll their eyes as if accepting death: What’s
she doing here, the oats are ripe and we are
heavy, we must not be taken we will not
be taken we must RUN—it's no use
trying to reason with a skittish, hungry horse.
You’d sooner scoop the mountain
on an interview with time. I’d learned to tie the loops
of my discretionary mask so I could pull it down to talk
with one hand, leave the other free. She's twitching as it lifts
a coin of Lunchable ham to her lips—easy, who’s the sweetest
baby, good girl, take it slow—you don’t want her to run again,
the way the cars keep coming now, like when it snowed for weeks.
Everyone but me was happy
quarantine was over. The zipper of the desert highway
tapped a vein and ran again, red and yellow poppyseeds
packed full of living flesh. I’d been watching the city
sitting on a little pile of rocks, feeling sick about the growing stream
of human traffic. Fourteen meters up the road, a Shepherd
dripping from the jaw, one leg tucked like a folding chair
or heron underneath. Her eyes unpacking mine
the way a baby looks at you. A bad decision chased a steak
or similar exotic dope, the feathered scent of fried potatoes
dipped in cedarpine had carried her up to this carousel
that seems to keep accelerating, where the horses
roll their eyes as if accepting death: What’s
she doing here, the oats are ripe and we are
heavy, we must not be taken we will not
be taken we must RUN—it's no use
trying to reason with a skittish, hungry horse.
You’d sooner scoop the mountain
on an interview with time. I’d learned to tie the loops
of my discretionary mask so I could pull it down to talk
with one hand, leave the other free. She's twitching as it lifts
a coin of Lunchable ham to her lips—easy, who’s the sweetest
baby, good girl, take it slow—you don’t want her to run again,
the way the cars keep coming now, like when it snowed for weeks.