I recollect my times-a-dwellin:
Screen doors clattering, agitates my sweet escape
Of sugared plums and chrysanthemum
Holler my name and I must wake
(In your ample accent) calling, "Come get your supper!"
"Krokets and paling? I'd rather lick a brick."
'cause that smokey eel quivers my fork
"Eat! You're slim as a besom's stick."
I peer out the pane, at the laboring goldfinch
Plucking twigs and sticks, embellishing her nest with
The most firey oranges, scarlets, and ambers
A home fit to brood her chicks
And the mealy peaches descend from branches
Bruised and battered, just like my mother ached
And the fruit flies gather, to bid farewell
Amidst the over-ripened wake
And the barking herd, interrupts the order
Border Collie tongues drape like salty palls
Digging shallow holes, like catacombs
'tis a sign that autumn's come
I pull my stockings up, up past my hooked nose
Button-down my flannel, a dead-beat's hammy down
I lace my boots snug, so they cannot part with
my soles, why'd he leave our town?
So I tramped down on towards the marshy, mellow
Pond; string, hook in hand and baited by a fly
And I could not swallow the silent stillness
My breath broke the soundless sky
I casted once, then three times over
Hexed with a rat's luck, the hook swam bleak and bare
So I surrendered to the bank's botany:
Watercress, lotus; despair!
And the polliwogs, you will not decipher
Nor myself, for the sun has bit me brown
And my fingertips have sprouted like thorns
I am a man now, halfly-crowned
I'm the kindest king 'cross my kingdom
Just ask the acres, for they have never ached nor sered
For the water runs from the sound of song
That I hum towards her rainier (rain-ear)
And the botched-tailed cat sifts through the woodlet
Harvesting hares like crops, cultivated just for sport
And I've shunned him time, and time over
"The chicory and peas you may floor."
The spaghetti squash, squalls in fever
Under-tended and obtuse, eager to be stewed
And I knew not of my kindred's recipe
So it rotted and I rued
And the nude painted pantry, which preserves my pickles
Jams, jars, jellies, and a broom just in case
Jealousy ensues a pickled-panic
Becoming irate and sure to break
Beneath the floorboards, all slated and cedar
Where the badgers gather to burrow and gossip
Of that coyote's coat that he adorns daily
All outdated and archaic
And so I sleep all day, for my time is fleeting
Setting all the stars, to rouse me like a clock
And when the sun retreats, I hear the twinkling
A snooze button I have not
I can think of all the things you gave me
leaf piles, pies, heaps of figs; I could be sick!
And all this turmoil turns me taut
Autumn can be so autistic
