True to form the ducks the ducks uncooperative
but what the hell, off with the sport coat,
grab the jack, get down to the nitty gritty
the nuts and bolts of it all. The jig finally up.
The hum of the Internet. The whole thing
captured on laser disc for review, with commentary,
a colorized feed tracking the procession of electrons
trickling through the labyrinth of homes
awash with the glow of information.
Kindergarteners bemused. Ducks imprinting
themselves upon freights meandering
through the twilight and into Act 2 Scene 7
where Winifred - dear departed Winnie -
comes clomping in - As if what? As if nothing
had happened? Nothing had transpired? -
demanding lunch money, an explanation,
a getaway car, a full tank of gas. Something.
Anything. Desperately trying to match
the tempo, to capture the speeding bullet,
trailing a wake of Pik-Up Sticks, dancing away
her cares and woes under the watchful eye
of canvas, driving home with every step,
every gesture, every blink of the eye,
the importance of rain, the importance of sunlight,
and the days passing inconsequential,
leaving their mark on every last one of us.
