John-Ward Leighton

FIRE FIGHTERS PARADE

the poet in the window
is here to watch the parade
he pauses and notes
he can’t keep the words
on the line I’m afraid

little one in shoes of florescent orange
a word I cannot rhyme
except loose change
and even that is not in range

the rocket scientists
ride their bikes on the sidewalk
sans helmet, bell or mirror
one will know their un-helmeted heads
will someday meet the pavement
and put out the light
cause what they are doing
just ain’t right

a denizen of the street
into the coffee shop peeps
and now the place smells
of fetid armpit
like some one just had a
homemade shit
it put me out of sorts
like it was time he changed
his shorts

he moves on
but the smell lingers
like that well known fart
in the elevator
that you can’t blame on the dog
that insult to the nose
when someone drops a rose
and causes women to pull
a sour puss
and young men to laugh
it was ever thus

the parade is about to start
and the kids
take precedent
on the curb