Amber

Another one of my nonsense poems, something about corporate America, you tell me.

 Amber frost-photo journalist, opium den of lions;

not the quest you represent, not the turn of the dial,

of the key to cement windows and red tile roofs.  

 

A pack of them down there with Timex lunches, eating vegan

on roads that cut the chords

between wolf and full-belly sleep,

between a life and living.  

 

At a crossroads the crowd seizes,

captured as bugs on the spinning flypaper.

But ozone therapy is good for the skin they say,

stuffed faces full of honey, sloppy footprints for calf and cub.

 

We know the now less than amber, less than fossils.

We know their diet and their death,

waiting for falling skies in mute anticipation;

another life pressed for oil,

another art in the key of American.

Author's Note

Good luck.