‘Til the Cows Come Home
Limbs akimbo, I breathe in the morning light, breakfast
on daybreak’s promise, turn my back on the angst
of last night’s news, moon the myopic body politic
with its astigmatic visions, ignore all mandates, refuse
to redress last-night’s nightmare-scattered bedclothes
or rinse grim residue off the stable floor.
I saddle up and high-tail it out the front door
to horse around in Central Park, plop on the Great Lawn,
bask in nature and nurture in the Conservatory Garden, laze around
the Sheep Meadow ‘til the cows come home, bull-headedly
churn unreal into surreal, grow bovine-size sunflowers
in giant dry fissures of rough and tumble rock, attempt to disentangle
gnarled roots of insecurity and insanity, while sticking
my skeptic’s tongue out at super-size-me
salt-licks of inanity.
I balk at cow-towing to the ding-dung, ding-dung,
ding-dung of the same old, same old bell
and to stoically chewing my cud
while awaiting the arrival of Godot.
Holy Cow, no!
Let me greedily graze
in Shakespeare’s Garden, ingest the lyric
that suggests parsley, sage, rosemary
and thyme to season illusive reason
with pigheaded rhyme.
Please Refrain from Feeding the Animals
Completely incorrigible, he snorts.
Oh, no, I demurely reply,
not completely, only half.
Which half, he snarls, upper or lower?
You never did understand me, I sigh.
I’m halved vertically, not horizontally,
and it’s debilitating to determine which side is which,
since left & right often conspire to join at the hip and broadside me.
Not only incorrigible, but dyslexic to boot, he grunts.
Oh, shoot, I cry, do you have to hang a sign on every cage?
Why can’t you simply flow with the go, you know,
cling to the flying trapeze wherever it swings you?
I ask you, Is it a crime to toss a monkey a nut?
Non-sequitur, he growls, then spits
a slew of primitive poetry through churlish lips:
What a flake, a certifiable fruitcake.
You’re so banana-headed you just don’t get it,
that sometimes your antics are hard to take.
I refrain from feeding him to the animals.