a piece of my antivenom

The new season stretched and yawned and paid
the dawn about three to seven
languid sighs. At last the time was nigh
– had rolled around again – to flip
the flaps that made motors begin
the mixing of green shades and hues.
Once assured those processes
churned satisfactorily,

the new season threw on a sunny
windbreaker and strode through the gate
created long ago from a pair
of doilies about the size
of bicycle wheels;
when out in the reality
an awakening happened, as in
a list of to-dos. Topmost on the list

of seasonal to-dos was a visit
to the hairdresser and the clock
ticking in this county’s ethereal
dimension’s primary square
hadn’t brought its arms to pray to the universe
before the new season had that cocky stride
that aids the spread of the aftershave smell.
Some seasons were content to wait

until the last minute and then rush
to and fro across mountains
and agitating oceans
to make the entry in time.
But this was not one of those types.
Glide along and turn like a top
in a loop of goop on the way
to a new fiberglass class.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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