Le Morte d’Arthur
That bobwire roll been sitting on that fencepost over 10 years. Guess it’s a marker, like a cross, except nobody’d be putting up no cross for Uncle Art. Nobody wanted nothin to do with him, even after he’s dead.
See, he was stringing that bobwire. The fence was electric but we wanted to put bobwire on top to keep the horses from always getting shocked. Art had shut off the juice. We turned it back on for a laugh. Art was on his third sixpack; he pissed on that wire and flew like Superman in reverse. Heart attack, Doc said.
People say I’m the life of the party because I tell a joke or two. I might be laughing loud and hearty but deep inside I’m blue. See me with another girl looking like I’m having fun…
she might be cute but she’s a substitute: you’re the permanent one.
Outside I’m masquerading,
inside my hope is fading; just a clown since you’re not around. My smile is just make-up since I lost you, so take a good look at my face, you’ll see my smile looks out of place;
look closer, it’s easy to trace the tracks of my tears.
All apologies and all credit to Smokey Robinson. If you don’t, by some slim chance, know this song, listen to it, think about the difference between song and poem, and regard the greatness of Smokey Robinson.
I waited for her to come out. There were convenient benches, but I did not sit; I was too agitated. When would she come out? Would she see me over here? Would she recognise me?
I knew I’d recognise her. Her silhouette was indelibly ingrained in my mind. Baby field mice are born with bone-chilling terror at the shape of a hawk wing shadow gliding across the terrain; she was that to me.
Most men would say she was stunning, flowing hair, long legs, voluptuous, but her shape was a hawk’s shadow; the terror was imprinted in me.