Three O'Clock
Nov 25 '02
The Bottom Line This is a "moment poem" from my Fiction II class.
Like a waterscape of words,
with taloned titters,
past knock-kneed trees which stoop
like necromancers,
below galloping clouds come
the mock-mice gradeschoolers, a cold sweat of
kids from Elm Street Elementary, with impervious eyes and
load onto the scruffy schoolbuses;
a hosanna of highschoolers with humdrum-roll, low-proof, larruping
laughter bloody the air with blue words, pour
like a hell-broth out of Phoenix High,
slip like bad blood through the veins of streets,
gaudy like macaws and with their gears-slipping voices,
spout guff like gushers,
swim like merpeople through the early afternoon,
titan, twiggy teens, mums have to use a hook and ladder just to
peck 'em g'night,
spread out on bus benches like guano,
plopping their words like liver spots on the sidewalk,
many of the boys, some of the girls, even,
sleek as squids;
and the gobbler-chinned, life-like geriatrics, like galleons
steer down the streets,
their butter step,
wading through them, we, through a slime of smiles;
a Frenching wind in the tree-holes,
each open like the scoop of a bong,
gutbucket gusts,
and a teething, fresh, New York zephyr
on the droid fireplugs,
a seasoned voice we trust, like Harvey Keitel,
or Alec Guiness,
leaves like glitteratti,
and yard dogs like medicine show hawkers
with their bumptious barks and a hootchy-kootchy of autumnal hues,
the low comedy of squirrels,
this frottage of photons! oh,
the gawping sun,
making willow branches live wires,
the moon in the corner,
set for its turn for death-watch duty,
single-story shops a crass vernacular,
and me, ho! to think it, a balletomane at six.
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Member: William R. Bradbury
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