By Tim Murray
Is there still such a thing as writing odes or
just to be funny. On the floor again an ode to
the crumby carpet. If there ever was a time for
plastic airplanes to fly rumbling in hallway
making smoke trail Sacred Heart cough then certainly
the time is now. Once a black haired girl was sleeping in
his bed when he woke to pinch himself light fell from the
crunchy sky like sunshine with a bear in its eyes. A blue jeep
dangling from the back of a rusty tow truck ambling down
the gravel alley. There are silent yellow siren lights whirling
mailbox stuffed with used furniture sales and potato bugs. Now
Marko is on the bus again a brown paper grocery sack overflowing
with used mousetraps wedged between his knees. He watches
attentively for the third stop:
Teddy Roosevelt and the Organic Screams.
Clutching at Straws 