If You Ever Go Fishing, Call Me at Bernie's House in Ontario

 

 

Floating through the midst of

all those unusable suds

made by unwed mothers

washing clothes of unbathed children,

I saw a rocking horse.

Upon this wooden monstrosity,

laid the dismembered radiator

or a Ford 1927 model T.

Its hose leaked windshield

fluid onto the ever creaking rockers.

I landed, letting the Earth perch

upon my shoulders.  I could feel

the heat of the sun baked, metallic

ground, but it sucked away my

own heat making my teeth

involuntarily chatter.

The nylon sock I was wearing

on my femur quickly came

undone.  It obliterated itself into

its base elements and fell sun-ward

only to be spread randomly by

the vacuum of space.  The soapy

foam decided it had had enough

gaseous substances for one day

and collapsed, lifeless.  And still, the

horse rocked on.