Blind Guy sits on park bench, looks out, the day reacts:
A Man jogging by with his buxom new Bride
envies a Widower, lonely old fat—
propelled by gravity, on a skateboard he glides
sips a milk-shake, hits a hidden bump, flips
splashing blood on the trees and ice cream in his eyes.
Twins bike around him at brisk matching clips
pedals united as if on a tandem,
and never look back when Her backpack unzips.
Papers fly everywhere inciting pandem—
onium squirrels scatter “oh my God” one
Girl in headphones screams “this is my anthem!”
Eyes closed, pours her lungs out right at the sun,
jogs through a playground, completely enthralling
to a Newborn who still thinks the sandbox is fun,
building castles of words that keep falling,
because babies make terrible architects.
He hides speech when his Mommy comes calling,
fulfilling her instinct to serve and protect
(by warding off park pedophiles).
Her arms cross, rigid for added effect
while the wind blows her hair around wild.
The whistling echoes all twist into rhyme,
Mom crouches low to the sound of her child.
A Frisbee just clears her head in its climb.
Two Dogs chase, out of natural affinity.
A Monk kneels nearby who pursues the sublime
whispering prayers to a silent Divinity.
His mind sees these moments all frozen in time
and like Evergreens, dreams of Infinity.
One thought on “Sunday Matinee”
Pinke, please write more poetry! I loved this playful surrealism and cartoonish violence.