Weathered, and tethered to nothing,
Bound, but not by laces, but instead by the two faded yellow lanes,
That divide this highway,
This gap between two crumbling cliffs.
No rope bridges in between,
No swashbuckling cutthroats, hacking through bramble and bush, in search of
Anything that almost looks like them.
Whose goggles are fastened tighter than that of any scientist, in search of
Anything that almost looks like a trophy.
A black flat,
Melted and nearly flattened by scores of screeching tires and curse words and cursory glances and
Clinched fists, and
Car-seats buckled so tightly.
Affixed now to the asphalt,
Asphyxiating on the the puddles of exhaust and crude oil, and
An unpleasant steamy rain,
That gathers at the same temperatures from which they fell,
maybe even hotter.
And runs away,
maybe even hotter.
A warm bath for a sole that could use one.
A warm bath, when the shower is out of order.
A black mamba,
It’s jet black scales, onyx by any other name.
Once considered exotic and organic,
By the farmers that never actually attend farmers markets,
By the same judges, who leave their powdered wigs on when they sleep,
And talk on their phones during movies…
Domesticated and left to breed among the common snakes,
Among the common sneakers,
Bowing to the the reverent applause.
A black star,
Ready to implode,
Ready to take the other galaxies and their scrambled planets for a ride.
Checking the ignition switch, and thumbing through the hymnal…
Beaming the flashlight through the dark woods,
Cutting holes in the air, and blinding oblivious moths,
Disregarding anything remotely remote.
But never changing the channel.
Barely touching the ground,
Disregarding the all -too- popular use of ellipses,
That unfortunately never seem to make an appearance during an eclipse-ses.
Searching for the oldest, wisest tree stump in the forest,
The same one, hidden behind curtains of saw-grass, and termite mounds taller than
Like most skyscrapers,
Searching for the only place to sit down, and sing that perfect hymn.
Splayed out in the very green grass, the very next day.
Stewing over a certain stew and a curtain call,
Consulting any number of electricians from all corners of a phone-book,
Consulting ghosts, from the only four corners of the mausoleum,
Looking for anyone to turn on the right light,
Except the fireflies…
who haven’t even put on their reading glasses yet.