I.
There’s a musty smell
inside the shell.
Rusty nails
and splinters.
I can’t begin to
count the bugs.
Right now,
I see a spider.
II.
A clown car
heading for
a cliff.
Leaking
fluids.
Spewing
fumes.
Panic.
Fury,
Engine fire.
Big wheels
on a footsie roll.
III
The quivering
of the circus tents.
Banners waving
from their tops.
A spotlight
on the ringmaster.
Palaver numbs
the crowd.
IV
The recipe
has gone afoul.
There’s something missing
from the mix.
What ever happened
to the chef
whose skillet
made the meal?
V
I do not trust
the weathervane.
I can’t control
the wind.
But I know where
the wicked go
to lose their
pints of cider.
