Jonah Winter  
  Barometer 
 
  Other poems:

Gangsters

Goldi-Lox and the Lost Souls
 
The exigent lamplighter spurns moist advances
of a damsel in distress, one of those party animals
more in need of a fire engine than a boyfriend.
(All of this transpires in Nova Scotia.)
And then the blank slate said to the little girl:
Write on me.
Fill me up.
Give me something to erase
That was a few years ago.
Now, the Spanish-speaking parrot
hauls junk for 6 bucks an hour.
Not bad, when you consider
the long lines of pedestrians
standing silently in the snowy wilderness,
year after year.
Some day, something will happen.
Until then, let's all keep congregating
in the church basement, singing Kumbaya
to a round-robin group of rabbid ferrets
busy tearing each other's innards out.
Well,
you can only imagine how he felt
returning to the house he had lived in
all those many years.
Where was everybody?
Why was it starting to rain?
Why now?
All the doors in the universe
slammed shut at the same time,
leaving our hero bewildered
and a tad paranoid.
That's when the seven fishes
began to speak to him.
It was going to be a long,
long night.
 
 
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