on the incognito street
tramping by box buildings
(bright, busy lego block
storefronts and restaurants)
against the poet mountain –
the dawdlers and steam rollers
(popping in and out of sweet and cranky moments
in orange and gold and red
upon the blue, or on
the muddy mottled shadow splotches)
words fall – like dry zigzagging leaves in autumn.
they drift around on spittle breezes
or drop crackling to the ground,
to be crushed in happy-sad footsteps.
mysterious words, strange words
and wonderful words:
that, occasionally, soar on giggles
or are clasped, cherished, in entwined fingers.
that are flung and left to hang,
like slimy, cold spaghetti on branches –
humiliating the trees . . .
(I can`t help but think)
and all who pass.
note: Incognito (from the Latin incognitus) denotes that behind an action, there is someone who wants to remain anonymous.
photo: Against the Poet Mountain – W. Bourke
© 2014 Wendy Bourke