When the sun trades shifts with the moon
Dudley the Dashing springs forth from his silken bed.
He flies handless and unholy in his purring SUV
across the concrete jungles of The Land of Pretend
drinking a double café latte and crunching granola,
spilling inane words into his cell phone, snorting powder,
maneuvering around his secret hangover and his hidden fear,
massaging his ego in the rearview mirror.
In his chrome and glass castle, as life leaks
from the giant Rolex glistening through the skylight,
Dudley shines his pearly whites upon his minions,
a sea of masks each carved from private spite.
As the sun burns a hole in the day
Randall the Reliable throws manna to Nature's children.
Randall's run-down mobile home sits
in the shadow of Corporate Jeopardy,
on the trash strewn shores of the Lake of a Thousand Yesterdays.
In gratitude, Lady Fishtail's Choir of Singing Trout
lifts its collective head, gasp the polluted air
then serenade Randall and his plastic pink flamingos.
The birds dance in place next to the dying trees
beside Randall's mobile home.
Randall smiles, bows to the choir,
then moves his beaten self to tend his garden.
There is a hint of aspiration in the air.
Randall looks skyward as he whispers a prayer
for himself and his water-bound friends.
Dudley the Dashing springs forth from his silken bed.
He flies handless and unholy in his purring SUV
across the concrete jungles of The Land of Pretend
drinking a double café latte and crunching granola,
spilling inane words into his cell phone, snorting powder,
maneuvering around his secret hangover and his hidden fear,
massaging his ego in the rearview mirror.
In his chrome and glass castle, as life leaks
from the giant Rolex glistening through the skylight,
Dudley shines his pearly whites upon his minions,
a sea of masks each carved from private spite.
As the sun burns a hole in the day
Randall the Reliable throws manna to Nature's children.
Randall's run-down mobile home sits
in the shadow of Corporate Jeopardy,
on the trash strewn shores of the Lake of a Thousand Yesterdays.
In gratitude, Lady Fishtail's Choir of Singing Trout
lifts its collective head, gasp the polluted air
then serenade Randall and his plastic pink flamingos.
The birds dance in place next to the dying trees
beside Randall's mobile home.
Randall smiles, bows to the choir,
then moves his beaten self to tend his garden.
There is a hint of aspiration in the air.
Randall looks skyward as he whispers a prayer
for himself and his water-bound friends.
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