Above My Head
Above my head, foliage, and feathers clatter
as a hawk tangles with a squirrel.
Above my head, Russian tanks pop their tops
in boggling bubbles.
Just above a bald patch, shaggy clouds squat to piddle.
I am heads above those below,
the silver slick worms hardly notice as I thread through
the less grassy and bare.
Mind-hairs are a real thing, mine wave their thin tentacles
like fishing sea anemones, they snack upon
the overheard overhead; ripple gently
in the whisking winds.
A highbrow gets above itself, stutters as it utters.
I wear the headgear of long dead heroes, they ride
my scalp, baseball bats wave there whacks,
ultra-maga veterans of foreign wars
salute my stiff necked, heads-up pose.
There's a world of wonders down under,
but just above my head, that's where dandruff
ponders its flaky notions,
and all high-flown conundrums learn to fly.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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