The Group

It's beautiful, the whole dam business, the circle, the new and distant friends, the words formed, which blow away; like Zeek and Ike and Calloway; and the dark sky, rests; and I find a jilted tree, not far from the buzz, and the busy blue-breezed, hussy; the chicken on the step, persisting its gibberish neck; but, heavy in eye, I melt into the lavatory; with its pirouetting flies, and dark satanic skies, of cracked vermillion tiles; nonetheless; this is my life; thank you for the friends, the words, and my wonderful wife; the sweet afternoon-wind kisses, my old locks, and spent near-misses; and the quality, rhyming-time ; and I can’t disguise my reprise, my dread-locked naked smile, and goatee-spilling beard, latching on to the fertile, busy-breeze, and its warm fertile ease; but despite all this; I’ll wait; I’ll wait for the borrowed lies, the perky anchor’s, version of the news; her treated, trusty lemon skies. I'll wait.