IT’S NOT OVER TILL WE SAY IT’S OVER
That’s why they’re called safety matches;
duck your head before striking.
That’s when the tarnished Indian elephant coin
bank with iron-stripped flathead screw divorced
both ribcages spilling wheat pennies, buffaloes,
Mercury dimes, & quarters in diaphanous Victorian
Gowns to flow across knuckles resembling two
golden drops of sensible venom.
★ ★ ★
Looks like your liver’s doing fine,
says Humboldt to the lobster, chops
held in check by OCD anniversary
over shellfish shaved ice buffets,
(Easter or Mother’s Day), shoes
abandoned beside the creek where
fallen logs resemble small gators trolling
inner tubes beside cardboard boxes
face down, corporate tattoos blurred.
I turn around, when I can,
I turn to look
where I’ve been.
I turn, according to yoga,
according to linguistic pretzel dreams
steeped in alchemical verbs, nouns & adjectives,
with interjections & careless conjunctions
tossing Mardi Gras beads to bare-chested
prepositions pilfering fast-food dumpsters
& haunting merlot eyelashes to spot a fry
below lusty chicken leg busted in three
places, but a fry, & just when we thought!
About the poet:
Alan Britt is poetry editor of Ragazine.cc. You can read more about him in About Us.