the talk on the street

on the incognito street

tramping by box buildings

(bright, busy lego block

storefronts and restaurants)

strewn, haphazardly,

against the poet mountain –

rolling through:

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.

and then, there are the words:
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