|Card Blanche, Sonnet #4 (Fixation)
It's 1965 and the Beatles were right. The world
is five games behind. A cat licks one of its nine
lives and anyone can grow up to be urban manhood.
Maybe calls it a pistol. Has a girlfriend or is
a hump-back whale. Keeping it real. In wallpaper
petal-pushers at the bottom of the second inning.
Or the entire baseball season on strike. Cage-free
sex. Or nothing human to eat. Squirrels are one
example. Acorns another. And by July the cotton is
waist-high and whispering words seldom heard. And
not just any big ears. With a distaste for curry
or naturally suspicious. Either way, any month
could become a ceiling fan then turn out to be an
abandoned Coca Cola factory. Or every stoplight
flashes red on penitentiary road. She'll easily wear
bangs but never a dog collar. Or sometimes even on
her day off. As for me, I'll always mistrust anything
that remotely resembles a shoehorn. A blue rug waiting
for applause. A cheap carpet sweeper that's on a roll.
O yeah, and don't forget, even years can go bald.