No Fool, No Fodder
Did he prefer the knee to the ankle,
uncoupled and black tarred, the space between them
a dark roux of muddy water and a mouthful of moon?
No need to worry about the fattened pig
or the quick tap dance behind the shed.
Of all the things he used to claim,
a pasture of black-eyed Susans was never
one of them. He didn’t need a speedometer
or two more cocktails, his road was already
greased and graveled. He sped right down
hearing only a few suggest, Keep your eyes on the road.
And the finishing line? That dark place
of crackle and fizz? It could be his best of days.
No fool, no fodder. Please, no skinny-dipping
in the black, fresh-water springs.
Floating Wolf
