by Glen Martin Fitch
The speeding carts
in darkness lunge and squeal,
(eyes glow then fade)
down through a dragon's jaw,
passed bats and skulls.
Kids shriek with anxious awe,
but, though we duck,
few think the phantoms real.
What scares me
(more than plywood ghoul or witch,
who just like us
are forced around then back)
is what's beneath us
on this endless track,
how hidden wheels
provoke the pre-set switch.
Just so the scent of thyme--
up swells regret.
A train at night--
I'm homesick once again.
A book--
lost love.
Enough!
Not what, it's when and why
that stumps me,
haunts me,
makes me fret.
The shuttle not the shame
is what I dread,
this Mobius madness
jolting in my head.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011