pockets fulla peevishness
that stab,
a mordant feeling.

this sense of threat
that lurks beneath,
keeping him from healing.

out here
on this graveyard shift
where lucky breaks
won't ever come,

shrugging off
the nagging sense
he'll never live to see one.

determined
not to faulter
whilst he executes
the orders.

looping
into skies above
like a shimmering bumblebee,

his craft appears
recalcitrant,
defiantly
ascendant!

propositioning
the spheres with
surrealistic swagger,

the grand arc of
his poetry doth uncoil
inchworm-like.

manning his controls
inside a cockpit,
trying
counter measures,

he's invisible
to
highbrow radar.

he's invisible
to
highbrow radar.




© 1996-2010 KC wilder



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