by Robert F. Thimmesh
Public transportation
is not embraced
by stoic Midwesterns
who love
the laconic ways
of a Caruso or Callas
leaving North Dallas,
of a peacocked Jaeger
rolling through Peoria,
of howling at the moon
with wolf-man's tune.
A dashboard McBurger
teeters over fries
in a pool of frozen catsup
while Cleveland's orchestra
is conducted
through barricades
which cannot deny peace
to the Balkans this
Friday morn. Of
guarding Michael Jordan
to a four free throw night
and dance Barishnikov's
Nutcracker as the car
salesman shouts
“break a leg” until
the private auto machines
sputter out of dreams.
for Cheryl Jeanne
by Robert F. Thimmesh
A tulip
rides the springtime's sun
a wind
whispers to Superior's rocks
and time
slows for the turtle's trek
to muse again this day's mystery
unhindered
by
the helter-skelter
of
a rabbit's run;
for
meditation's quiet
trims
foliage
from a spirit's repose, a necessity
unrecognized by the pragmatism inhaled
with each breath of civilization;
civilization that stampedes
through a perfect rose
to venerate--- the
biggest
the
fastest
the
strongest
conjunction
of
imagination
and
flesh,
and celebrates the winner who sits
at the apex
of our memory
until absorbed by the next morning fog.
I am birthed
by a shadow
that masks my intent
as I minister the rose so drooped
with water bucket and fertilizer sack;
I sing a lament
from the garden of possibility
as I sit
with my friend in the afternoon of the hush.
Robert Thimmesh currently
works in a real estate office helping out with leasing, maintenance, and other
duties. He continues to be a life-long resident
of the Minneapolis-St. Paul metro area.