by Janis Riehl

I sit
With a flat tire.
But the sun is high
And the grass is green
Reflecting fire
And a twist of light
Within my ignominious plight.

My god of status
Sits in wry humor
Bowing to the sky,
A magnesium rim
Like a bent knee thrust
Into collapse of honor.

But I have no cause to cry!
I ponder the possibilities inching by,
And sit in judgment at their negative try.

Stuffed men
In their tin gods
Avert their eyes
As they ease along
Bumper to bumper;
Castrate themselves
In their denial,
In their hurry
Not to pry.

Wry humor
Bounces the sunlight
Off of an ease of aerials;
Their synapse,
Receiving freeway reports
That tell them
Not to be
Where I can see
Their small transparencies.

Chivalry is dead.
Men have turned so far
Denying their primal head,
They’re apt
To find themselves
To have been bred

© 2003 by Janis Riehl. All rights reserved.