30 November 2012
from atlas north to sacrum south I run in soft curves an odd-numbered highway perhaps but a subway, in some ways, is probably a better picture the hard outer shell filled with the soft caramel and vanilla nugget, sounds like candy, let’s call them passengers, riding inside, who spill out at the last stop just north of the municipal zoo nervous commuters on the wrong side of town their Times rolled tight like a constable’s baton floating toward the safety of the cages, to see the hurdy-gurdy tigers and the snow leopards, since they are felinophiles, let’s call them cat lovers, their hands in their pockets fingering their make-believe coins, called tokens, and then finally, ultimately, toward their rank unruly yours untruly snoring stretching belching roaring king and queen of everything, not just jungle, rumbling loins __________________ Postscript He said, "Toe-may-toe." She said, "Tuh-mah-tuh." He said, "Roaring lions." She said, "Warring loins."