A squeezebox whines nasally to accompany
two snails grappling like tongues in the garden.
They are too busy impregnating one another
to ever dream of a future in which
they huddle like black tonsils in a dusty tin
on the shelf of an all-night grocery,
part of an accidental delivery
of budget delicacies; sour caviar and cut-rate calamari,
economy size tubs of pate the owner feeds to his cats.
There they will sit, their label bleached
by the fluorescent lights, until their can is swiped
by a couple of stoned teenagers
who pry open the lid with a switchblade
and flick the mollusks, one by one,
through the chain link fence of the overpass
to splotch the windshields of the cars below,
causing one camper van to swerve into the passing lane
and smash its lips in a reckless kiss
against the grille of an oncoming produce truck,
sending its cargo of pomegranates
bouncing across the blacktop.
I could perhaps warn them of their fate.
But no, I will tiptoe away
and leave these viscous suitors oblivious,
reflected in the garden globe
as they twist with torpid ardor
beneath the bowing leaves,
among the stones
as my accordion wheezes its stale breath
into the glistening night.
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Hans Christian Anderson again? This one was really lovely and bore four reads (total) very well. Like how you're using rhythm and rhyme to your advantage. Doesn't always need a scheme--sometimes it works as an effective seasoning.
ReplyDeleteAnd the accordion--what a strange effect. I thought it didn't work at first, but it does as a sort of wondercabinet or theater of follies/horrors.