Tumbling Face First Into the Bog

Tearing across a dewy lawn

a baby squirrel flies like lightening

up a thick monster of oak,

and evacuates another

dust-bunny sized squirrel

from his supposed claim

as the sun bleeds down through

the branches...

...I hear the disposed squirrel

chitter back at the squirrel at the top

of the tree in anger,

as the victor chitters back his way,

sounding like he's laughing,

and for some reason

my mind goes flying,

and I'm off on another tangent,

wandering deep through the wet muck,

shaking my cans together

'til this slot in time's

unstuck...

Are we biting at each other heels?...

Why do we care when a birthdate slides by,

and the presents aren't forthcoming

from the people who would matter least?...

...Or even if they do matter,

where does this expectation rise from?...

It's like poor people dressing up

to impress the rich

who never look their way,

except to say,

"Good, they're occupied..."

There's a desire for status,

to be a King of something static...

We buy the gleaming products,

or respond out of some panic

to the political agenda

of the day...

"Which side are you on?..."

Fighting for our right

to bitch into a thick fog mist!...

...If we really knew the score

would we still carry this insistence

to have all flagrant voices heard

for no clear reason but the sound...

"Hear that echo in the park?...

...It's getting louder...

Something's swelling..."

I want my head to stop it's bell,

But there's a reason I've been ringing...

Need to reach or breach a bank

where there is fewer words, I think...

...Give it a rest...

Take it to bed...

We must remove ourselves

from morass.

Hearing the squirrels chitter build

out of that bush

where it's been damned...

...To be condemned is not so bad,

as long as we have time to sit

and lick old wounds,

ponder our selves...

Whatever gives me back

my voice.

©

8/18/20

Bunny Villaire