Julias Ptarmigan, Swerver

I coast along without a plan into the foyer where the little rags grow

Into the Toyota's lobby of the small pliant crinkles who gather like dust mites on holiday

.

Past the spoons

With a prescribed purpose I found in the drawer of chests.

Can the healing begin now?

Or is it already too late, Mayor?

I do not think the peach would care; the cat shrug its many shoulders,

Nor is it possible today that the mumps should respond favorably to a bribe

Invective will not avail today

Pity will not provide surcease.

.

And in some small way, don't we all need the perspiration quite as much

As the succor punched our way in supple simplification

As the most recent tormentor reaches down

To swat the head off his loyal fly lord

.

But if none of this will serve,

Then whom am I to trust

With all of these gifts

Grown in secret

Deep in the shadows of my heart?

And who might be worthy of my consent,

This new time, this new opportunity,

This lowest and latest of ventures?

.

I await your answer.

I drift backward sloppily

And count.