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Collected Poetry

    (rd king dot net)
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Beating Heart, Dancing Feet  

  Saturday Afternoon in America 


Dragged swiftly you were, kicking weakly and barely screaming
through the always super florescent, over-stocked aisles
of this giant-sized, dwelling-like variety store
by the charred and flaking emissaries of the carbuncular Death—

who are often the first to glean when a heart struggles to beat;
and shaken we were by your sudden and heartfelt distress
and the cashiers did shed some selfishly authentic tears;
but the fire truck could not put out your fire

and the firemen could not mop up your water
and the ambulance could not quiet your siren
and the paramedics could not talk to your heart
at all;

so we were, again, reminded of our sole purchase
as the wicked went their wicked ways, armed, wary,
	and unrested.



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