METRO LACE

IV (continued)

May 7

Prescribe me a spoofer.  What?

Going all the way.  If conflict

is in the nature of the beast, quelled.

This is not the best time to dial in

a private line.  Do you think

somehow the closings speak

for themselves?  Measured tones

from here on out, and abustle too.

Cracked grassy lots, graffiti,

and the usual hour business calls.

Let's start the day without guilt,

with only minor inflammations,

a sudden shortness of breath, but

not a cry of  '¡Ay, caramba!'

No, more like moseying toward

a destination, a meeting with a mark

known to be charming in private, like

standing in the street with nicotine

on the breeze.  They installed bleachers

I heard, yes, yes, and the sea still has

breakers, listen, I'm on another line.

Has the call come in from Istanbul?

Let's make malarkey while the sun shines.

Precious few of us will be necessary

in the next round.  But nowhere to go.

Just so you grasp that.  What's the deal

on Metro Lace anyway?  Bigelow told me

it capsized, lost all hands, or so they said.

I'm quashed.  Even in the country,

there are expected deliveries, if only

of a philogenitive nature.  Bedroom

eyes shake up the animal kingdom,

the houses tightly coupled, autos stored,

and storied lawns.  Arrivederci Roma.

He never lost his temper in company,

saved it for when he heard birds

out there on the links, or walking

the path toward the pool.  Night

is like your personal valet, give it

something to do, don't just stand

around in skivvies, your hand

in your pants, try to remember

the algorithm, the backstory,

the subplot, the commandments,

for Christ's sake.  Any port

in a flash crash, buddy, the breeze

divine, the architecture eye-worthy

in classic American style, or retro,

but like the tombstone read,

“I'd rather be in Philadelphia.”

Unless.  Of course.  You said it.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013