A frog rides a swan in a brown bicorne hat. The frog's in the hat, not the swan. By which I mean that the frog's wearing the hat. The swan has no hat to put on.
It dangles its toes. The frog, not the swan. The swan's toes are hidden. Who knows if they're gone. Swim the lake of St-Bernard, Col du Grand. Cross the kelps, First Consul Tadpoleon.
Coffee, cream, a plastic cup,
rainbow sunset, palms lined up,
flowers growing in the sand,
bare legs showing, getting tanned,
hearts on the electric gate,
funny SPEEFY license plate,
Marvin cloned from outer space,
stay on Capistrano Place.
I'm running home at night. The cars all shine their lights like shooting stars. In line they start. Their spreading glow brightens the dark before they go. They fill the air. The beams they cast and grime they spread and sounds they blast and stench they spill as they drive past make spaces worse while they go fast.
House stands up tall on wooden beams to scaffold someone's future dreams.
Construction crew's all wearing reds while building quarters for their beds.
Neighbors must hate the noise and mess that make it hard to decompress.
And once it's done new occupants will bring expanded opulence.
Majestically the flyer goes into the atmosphere.
He elevates his eyes and nose and softly sunlit ears.
The other riders on the plane face frontward as they soar.
Transplants transcend tele-terrain, transmigrate door to door.
And so he too, the little man, sits soundless in his seat,
aboard the plane sans plaint or plan, upon four furry feet.
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