Believe it or not,
the man, a troubled one,
a hummingbird once before,
sabotaged his own trajectory
by swimming in it.
Now I know that sounds like a bit of a fetch-feeder.
Truth: water sprinklers
tickling your fine-toothed fancy.
There mister, yourself sir,
older but human still, and ugly in this life,
bent, why, a coin, an old man, a cane, whiskers,
over, swinging, to pick it up presumably,
perhaps an analysis, a study, mirrors, a breeze (a bear),
and then back down.
Sadness is the steady thornbeat of our being.
Sadness comes again.
We revel homeward as manatee,
find comfort there as eggs,
dream don’t it whet your whistle,
sound the sirens—putrid, one—as dames.