The headlights in the fog
turned out to be a refrigerator
in the middle of the road with its door open.
This road may lead to a fire extinguisher.
This road may curve while the sidewalk goes straight.
Or the other way around.
Along the side of the road,
stinging nettles creep into single lane choke points
and try to kill automobiles.
A street performer took his title literally.
He walked the double yellow lines in the fog.
He recited deli side orders while juggling canned hams.
The street performer’s name was Eddy.
A jazz score followed him everywhere.
The bass line veered into a cholla thorns.
I fear if I shut the refrigerator door
a catastrophe will occur
that may change the world forever.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Exposed sky covers itself with clouds.
Extreme extinction endlessly on the cusp.
Make no mistake when cooing.
Make no swallows of ginkgo-numeric tea.
The barn awaits a clean sweep.
The barn stores folk songs in the loft.
Unimaginable pain fleets an uncertain future.
Unrequited pain finds a bar and orders.
I understand you meant your other Yes.
I depend upon the impossibility of your No.
No ticker-tape rains on our parade.
No jazz to twist into balloons over our heads.
Sequined words sewn on a poem sparkle.
Shoulder blade cuts steak into bitesized pieces.
This morning will return in March reruns.
This evening bruises all the good girls and boys.
God’s plan, all in tatters, drifts on streets as litter.
God’s trinity is boycotted as a good ol’ boys club.
I create a suit to clothe your needs.
I tattoo a star spangled tie to your chest.
Copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
This poem is a fancy made from word play and stream of consciousness. If you find a deeper meaning to it, please educate me with a comment.