Tiny rancid scorpions crawled from under the bed.
A bruise formed on the undulating floor.
The hotel bedroom balcony retracted,
like cat’s claws, but at random intervals.
The broken night lamp feared eviction, starvation.
My ankles plummeted until I became a foot taller.
Children, photographed in a beach scene,
washed out of the picture at high tide.
The ceiling wore red, white and blue sequins.
On the dresser, the hors d’oeuvres appeared cliche—
some stale, unappetizing platter purchased at Phillips 66.
A pale horse grazed the sweetgrass comforter.
On the north wall, the five-ringed Olympic logo
discovered the black loathing of deflated bicycle tires.
New Mexico elected the woman in a blouse
fastened by peyote buttons as the Rain Queen.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney


The title is the phonetic display of the word Canard: an unfounded rumor or story.

This poem spawned itself by me letting my inner-surrealist loose on the page to generate some fun.

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