Why do you ride that contraption?
When they go up to the mountains,
they sing, they dance,
they have too much to give.
They leave such things behind,
feet flying on the wind.
Should you find yourself there
you would not stay long
with that morose mood.
You’d leave it
on a rock and roll it down the hill
to crack in a heap
of broken spokes and bent wheels.
The air would insist that you breath.
Shaking your foundations . . . pumping your blood.
Your eyes would beg to look far into the distance
following clouds to their conclusions.
The grass would invite you to stay awhile, sit longer
for a deeper answer than one that merely satisfies.
Copyright © 2002 Dennis Janke • All rights reserved.