[Mister Saint]: 79.Poetry.Card Tarts

numbness passion
stretch revolve heave pivot
blossom nest ammonia canvas tablet shovel

I was assigned these words in class.

A simple trek
along the road
from plain, quaint home to hollow house,
from vapid place to place;
the daily walk.
I stretch my neck
above the chewy, fluffy clouds
(or so it seems)
to read the painted signs.
It's funny how ammonia
never shows on canvas.
It makes me wonder
if the signs or my eyes are blind.

My neck cracks
like seashells crunching
in the hands of bratty children.
I wallow in the numbness
for a second, or two,
I lose count staring
at those signs.

They're there for your
protection, kids.
Those tablets heave
direction at our faces,
as if we needed heaving.
(some folks do)
but they are the same folks
who pen sonnets with shovels
and know a pivot
has legs.
The fold.
The sheep.

I saunter on, ignoring
them. I hate to love to brag,
but I am a lotus
blossom thriving
in a mouse's nest.
The signs apply
to me as well, but I
am no sheep.
I am passion,
just not today.

So I walk on.