Looking up into spiny clumps of pine
against this broad shingle of midmorning
blue so those fists
might as well be clouds
in some preposterous new sky.
I am sharp enough to write one line of poetry
to connect the overblown sounds
of a word like preposterous
to imposter by making an insightful associate
but today I'm a fake with limp brain,
old geezer sitting on my friend's front porch
in Cincinnati. A dying animal waiting
to be gathered into the artifice of eternity!
Each pole on this street has a grey metal box
(people pass by!)
containing enough juice
to fry a thousand squirrels
so why put it right there where I can see it,
why show me if you're not going to let me have it?
Nate Pritts responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.