VOCATIONAL YARMULKE
I am hanging alms over the precipice - ethereal
items of disposed-end dreams and dreamings
of you. I don't know why. The radio plays some
classical tune - a nasty romp of both viola
and oboe, or another concoction of sound.
In the small metal guardhouse, the black
watchman sits staring, a white plastic
coffee-cup in his hand. The contrast is
bleak, as he folds the contours of
his now-Sunday paper.
-
On the edge of my peripheral vision,
I note, a few families are passing by -
guidebooks and schedules in hand, they
avidly grasp their trade-marked pencils
to check off where they've been. The little
one is chewing gum, her bouncy skirt skipping
right along with her. Glumly, the mother and
father are trailing behind. The art museum looms.
-
A campus cop-car saunters along,
ever-watchful for the spite or the
arousal of something wrong, a thing
out of order, a synapse, perhaps,
disconnected. Wild things
grow wherever they land -
wanton, errant seeds,
all over this land.
I am hanging alms over the precipice - ethereal
items of disposed-end dreams and dreamings
of you. I don't know why. The radio plays some
classical tune - a nasty romp of both viola
and oboe, or another concoction of sound.
In the small metal guardhouse, the black
watchman sits staring, a white plastic
coffee-cup in his hand. The contrast is
bleak, as he folds the contours of
his now-Sunday paper.
-
On the edge of my peripheral vision,
I note, a few families are passing by -
guidebooks and schedules in hand, they
avidly grasp their trade-marked pencils
to check off where they've been. The little
one is chewing gum, her bouncy skirt skipping
right along with her. Glumly, the mother and
father are trailing behind. The art museum looms.
-
A campus cop-car saunters along,
ever-watchful for the spite or the
arousal of something wrong, a thing
out of order, a synapse, perhaps,
disconnected. Wild things
grow wherever they land -
wanton, errant seeds,
all over this land.
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