by

There is something between nausea and headache
you can count on, like an old inane joke.
Music ends, like a toilet paper roll.
Snakes and freight trains finally pass by.
But herons jaywalk across the streets,
wings ditched by the air. (Feel free
to cause damage to this image. Erase it
from your mind at your convenience.)
A sturdy policeman on the beat diligently copies
one of Ella Fitzgerald’s scats ‘til someone
politely asks him to shut up. Feel free.

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