At Noon: Whimsy Is Rare

At 10am, in the center of a grove of aspen trees,
sat three birds with varying colors of plumage.

Their beaks opened and closed with dedicated ticks,
but no sounds escaped.

The wind blew through the trees
tickling the brass chimes hanging from the porch…but

there was nothing but silence and movement.

The man who lived next door
left his complex in such a fury
that nothing seemed amiss.

Assume that the gears of his own mind
fill him with sound...
but know that the sex is always sublime.

At 11am three birds with no plumage whatsoever
landed amidst the aspen trees.

Three extra bodies magnificent in their plump nudity.

I emerged from my apartment at 11:55am.

At noon I heard from the aspen grove the sounds
of six squabbling gentlemen arguing
about who had forgotten to go to the dry-cleaners.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem