Resubmitted for the contest

Walking down the street,
laughter bubbles and froths
down the window of a faux victorian affair
until, finally settling in the gutter
flows down a rusted spilloff
.
I attempt to catch some
to carry in the golden cup of my hand,
which, already containing the wind,
dandelion wisps, a mixture of sunlight
and halogen leftovers from last night,
should make a fine feast for friends
.
Too much sex and coffee has me cranked up
like a Jester's box, taut and ready to spring
on a victim very much expecting
my poetry, which, like a cracker jack treat
is less surprise than anticipation
.
The words stick together on my tongue,
bound by the carmelized sugar of hope
daintily baked in the sun
until the inevitable metamorphosis
into the container which I carry words,
as another aquarius offering to quench thirst


Reviewed by Zenith Elliott 9/24/2003

Wonderful poem! ~Z~

Reviewed by Deborah Russell 9/24/2003

..." the golden cup of my hand" and ..."less surprise than anticipation"...

Nice turns and truths. Full of little surprises.

Reviewed by Jessica Stanfield 9/24/2003

Wow! This is splendid! Great job!
- J -