Author: David Wright

PEDAL the last yards, swerving into
ALLEY–fumble, gasping, for garage key, hang bike from hook.
EMBED now the memory of the ten mile adventure,
TRUMPing every dead meeting moment that lies ahead.

TOUGH H. Simpson finally closes the valve,
DYING klaxon alarm tails off.
PLUME of radioactivity over Springfield averted:
DOUGH!

unCANNY thoughts began when
NOMAD finally settled down–
CABIN life full of strange sounds.
SNORTing? Did he laugh in his dreams?

A SCOT from the lowlands, hired in no-show’s stead,
FEIGNs calm, opens the one door of little highlands school,
CHALK and other supplies–he’s walked it all from the station four miles back.
EAGER kids greet him: each other’s accents barely decipherable.

LOUSE thinks it’s wood thrush, to the bird
MANOR born, practicing micro song all day long,
RAJAH hears nothing, busy inventing spherical coordinates, about to add
THETA to the definition-but first, there’s an itch to scratch.

SEIZEd me the nervous fragments, a jjittered pulsing,
BEGAN racing in my mind, breakers tumbling my attention over,
ImPEACHment of a stable sense of me:
ANGST, eater of lives. Appeal to One: remember for me the thread through my tale.

GROAN as I see the pigeons on the ledge again.
SCARE them? They’ll fly away, yet be back in minutes.
FECAL adornment outside my window is so gross.
CLANK! I wrangle the steam cleaner to sanitize the ledge.

AUDIO, digital, streaming, or otherwise, has
DEALT me blows and also so much joy.
CHARTs, though I subscribe to measurement, landing in
INBOX, have not the magic to stir my soul.

FRUIT salad-should it have marshmallows?-instinct from bygone decade,
FERAL current of generational change introduces new instinct:
LATTE, the liturgical stop for coffee.
EQUAL instincts? Who knows? Each wellspring is opaque, save marketing’s role.