THE AFTERNOON OF FAUN
I didn't always know how things
went on, but I was OK with that :
a happy cloth over a laughter tree,
a smile at the drop of a hat. Once
came by, on his white servi-car,
the Ice Cream Man From Hell.
-
He was a biker guy, of sorts, who
dispensed ice cream with his bell -
and his motorcycle trunk was always
filled as well : funny how that went.
Like Pavlov, with that bell!
-
The tree-line at the edge of the
field was where the pot-smokers
hung - without a sense of time,
they'd stay there forever until
something told them they wanted
to eat. Then, one by one, or in
two's, they'd saunter gently past
the rows of motorcycles arrayed,
doing weird ballets so as not to
touch a one. Watching them was
fun. Ballet? Or jazz? The afternoon
of a faun.
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