Written by Randy W. Plym

 

a man at the library

told me to prep my wet-suit

for the flood, told me

he’d drive over the Appalachians

in a Reno-bound grave digger,

told me he needed to crack

every joint in his body.

 

in the backseat of a taxi,

I saw him on my smartphone

pinned to a cop car,

gum falling from his mouth

as the driver pointed to tennis courts

and told me none of these sumabitches

were ready for Armageddon.

 

this morning,

I carried my onions in a plastic bag

past the tomb-faced traffic and laughed,

whistling “Mr. Tambourine Man”

into the empty-cicada-shell-brown

yo-yo of another day.

 

Text © Randy W. Plym

*

 

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