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.
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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