No Sweet Drinks

Never was a dancer but waltzed
across the ballroom of the false
disco ball of sparkling culture
above illuminating our palsied
steps right left and twisting
looking light but floor-bound.

I find myself stepping back from
the dreaded end of the stick
of death pointing at my neck
like a hand pulled off a clock
from the face of the courthouse
five feet long and sharp.

We citizens of the city breathe
breezes blown in from the fecund
wlderness where artists like snakes
where poets like jackrabbits
where men and women in pelts
of coyote and groundchuck fill
the air with cries of eagle prey.

Walked off the job one lunch
sandwich and thermos clutched
beyond asphalt into the crunch
of gravel, sagebrush and sand
no cliche, no aphorism, no sweet
drinks of urban propaganda.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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