The
Cook
His hot hands
Hold ham like
It will melt
if
Left
unattended.
He slaps it on
The counter
with
A gay flick
Of his sane
wrist.
The wet sound
Invades my
ears
And sets up a
campfire.
His knife shines
like
Dancing at
dawn.
He slices
Far more than
This bit of
crowd
Will ever
need.
They call him
Chef.
He forces fire
Onto its
knees.
Some
People
Some people
make
Other people
cry.
They are red
Ribbons on
Generals
jackets.
They are the
Right wing on
The right
butterfly.
They will get
The last
dance,
The last chance
to
Gain glorious
gold.
Some people
make
Other people cry
but
Other people
make
Other people
die.
A New
Journey
My horse bounces
along
The long wobbly
path.
As I jiggle around
on his
Bony back I
wonder
Why cars cough
Foul air into
failed lands.
We have escaped
the
Other riders in
our clan.
They are far too
scared of significance.
They cannot catch
us today.
Today we are the
wind in the trees.
My ride clops over
to
An apple tree
and
Stretches for the
reddest apple.
As he chomps I
pat
His taut neck
and
Feel furious life
beating
Within him.
I gaze over the
cliff edge.
The spectacular
view overwhelms
A mind mangled by
magic.
Clouds chatter,
curious
As cats balancing
on weathered fences.
When we resume our
walk he
Is not so keen
anymore.
I will not kick
him like
The jockeys in
coloured clothing.
I will stroke him
like
He is a friend
sent to
Silence
solitude.
Bend
Bend.
Break.
Bend
Again.