Monday, June 4, 2012

3688. WHAT DID I KICK?

WHAT DID I KICK?
I kicked the webstream off the end. I kicked the
December monkey down a notch. I tried the fallow
backfield, and found that nothing grew. How many
hours I wasted in all these diatribes, I never knew.
-
Just past the pale, the white house still stood  - 
it had been there already some 85 years and 
planned to be another. The girl who lived within,
the one with the pale pink face, had told me
long ago she'd never leave. 'I stay up late, just
to listen to the sounds of traffic by the lake.
You'd be surprised by how often it changes,
even so late at night.' I never knew just what
she meant,  but I loved the way she said it.
-
The noise of a bullfrog pierced the night  - 
some distant, buxom sound  -  and I never
knew if it was wrong or right, being heard
that late. After all, what does a bullfrog
do in darkness?  Like reverence for a
saint, or an old, passed-on relation,
I sent my respects to the doom of
the night. My prospects, either way,
remained ever the same.

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