Insistent Shreds of Poetry

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It used to take less effort 

To hold poetic observations at bay.

A quick breath, and a stern internal, 

"Quiet. Lie Down."

And they would circle a few times,

And flop down, but with ears

Still pitched forward and twitching.

Now they seem to be getting

Rather more than out of hand.

In the midst of a serious meeting

"Heads nodding like frantic hens

Winnowing cracked corn before 

The first freezing gusts of winter."

Just leaps out onto the table.

"So moved." Says someone.

"Second." All in favor. Aye.

Opposed? Nay. The ayes have it.

Did any of that happen out loud?

Did we pass an allotment for corn?

You see now, given the least encouragement,

These dialogues just pop out.

As I work my way to the first significant

Transition in an introductory lecture

I am captured by the syncopation

Of dozens of pens dancing across paper

"Scratch, scratch, scratch."

An entire violin section backed by

A sneezing of cellos

And maybe the cough of a double bass.

At faculty meeting I glance up,

My sketch not yet complete,

As voices are raised, and then

Settle back,  receding waves

"It seems to me. . . "

"I thought the Dean said.  .  ."

"But from Foucault's perspective . . "

As my colleagues sing their refrain

and then resume, steady gazing,

Mews subsiding, as they curl into

Lazy attention, as sunning cats upon a sill.

I pull out of the parking lot,

Hitting home on the GPS 

Freeing those now useless neurons.

Traffic dances a swishing samba

Across rain swept streets.

Head lights, and tail, streak

Impressionist moments across

The black and shiny canvas.

“When possible, make a legal U-turn."

Yeah, right. Possible? Legal U-turn?
Don’t even get me started .  .  .   

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