He weaves his fears into a basket
They are easier to carry across the left forearm
Indenting the skin, rubbing it raw
A marriage of consent.
I motherly place his wishes in the folds of rope
The whitish egg of their form is a technicality
So much easier to devour :: it’s why they slither on bellies and have no jaws
A non-committal relationship he hissed.
The basket always sags to one side, say I.
And occasionally one of the pearly ideals
Will crack. Yellow happiness congeals on the shell
A shell of mirrors and closed eyes
No case can protect the broken
Of the poisoned from within
And Mother Goose counts the mute chickens.
A nursery rhyme to mollify the mature
And rock the infant into dreaming without slumber.
Hanging from a tree limb, a lullaby intoxicates
The yawns try to wake up The Lost Boys,
As the basket slips
Breakfast is served early this morning
The miscarriage of belief is underway
And Mother Goose sneaks off to the liquor cabinet.
Winkin Blinkin and Nod will meet us there
Where blue seas green and all the headless eggs
Tell him, “You are a basket case.”
Play chess upon stilts and bet away your frets
No worries for tomorrow, for tomorrow will forget
When you fall too quickly to be fixed. And Gother Moose drinks away your pain
All ABC’s are pawned off pharmaceuticals
As they blend in with the infertile muted ovals of our sins.