Click
by Odin Roark

Click

Waxy paper.
Cartooned respite.
Chewy pink.
Bubbles small.
Messes big.

“Don't you be blowin’ them.
Your brows be shaved.”

Daunted mother.
Silly child.

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Driver’s license.
Double feature drive-in.
Windows open.
Friends in next car.
Cuddle up seats.
Brown bagged cherries.
Stems to pull.
Pits to suck clean.
stomach aches ignored.
Paper peeled straws.
Blowgun ammo shot between cars,
shoring up boredom while girlfriend
gazes the big screen version of Jimmy Dean’s
jacket up there four stories tall.

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Making it on one’s own.
Lonely brownstone.
Central Park always dark.
Letters few.

Bill collectors many
Pay or else.
Notice this.
Notice that.

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Oops.
The draft is nice?
They say three squares a day.
See the world…
‘til you don’t.

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Dark storms rain down shrapnel.
Brain entangled.
Sunrise runs.
Nature hides.
Evil’s time.

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Discharged.
Smiles.
Smiles.
Door to door.
Vacuum cleaners rule!

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Used car.
Crazy wife.
Crazier life.
Such a neat package.
Until it’s not.

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Jack is good.
Smirnoff bad.
Mirrors behind bar.
Noise crackles.
Cacophonous peanut shells below.
Above stubby pencil upon napkins write.
Verse and prose.
Trying to rewrap once neat packages lost.

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Publisher’s glad hand extends.
Binds one in different wrappings.
Dust jacket shines
Royalty mail box stays empty.
Dust jackets become starters for fireplace warmth.

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Someday an old shep appears.
wet Ziplock packages aplenty.
One seals.
They walk.
They walk the walk.
Bark the talk.
Shuffle left.
Shuffle right.
Finally straight ahead.

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Breath’s final perfect photo.
Patiently waited for.

No more clicks necessary.