This Poem

This poem is not of beautiful warm summer

mornings, not of stately mansions in well

manicured neighborhoods. This poem is not

of glistening gems in gold settings, jewelry

stuffed in velvet boxes rarely worn. It is not

of the newborn, the dying old or the war-torn

dead. There are birds out there singing which

barely deserve mentioning. This poem is not

about elections won or lost, nor will it address

political, social or religious upheavals. It is not

about

young girls realizing their fantasies,

about marathons to be run,

not about BMWs or Chevys in parking

lots or streaming in and out of cities.

This poem is not about rampaging

rivers in rural counties, not about

the States of Oregon or Missouri,

it does not speak of universal mysteries

or four-fingered musicians who play

the piano with their feet. This poem is

not what it appears to be. There is no

logic to be followed here or anywhere.

You can add more sugar to the recipe,

drape a sheet across the window of

your own perceptivity.

Oranges are sold by the dozen here

or can be bought or stolen individually.

Try these shoes on for size.

Tell me more lies.

Bend the iron bar of rigidity,

stick a fork in the blue eye of transparency.

Today has been taken completely out of the

context of reality.

Sit down, shut your mouth and buckle up

for the ride.

This poem is about the nonsense of imagery.

And you and I are the only fools with two

flat tires limping across the finish line.

  

Chris Hanch 7-25-18