Mr. Congested

In visualizing the win
Mr. Congested failed to see the right ball
He coughed at the results
And punished his wife to be
Dear Mr. Congested
This is not a song
There is no melody
No soothing pattern
But the squeak squeak of the chassis
The train creating it's own rhythm
In a 26 beat or a 31 beat
All too complicated to follow
Especially by someone
That carries a hankie
And must cough into his hand an hold it there
To prevent broken blood vessels in the forehead
Mr. Congested,
You sit with your fist under your chin
Pointer finger propped against the side of your face
And drift away
Into a world without doctors
A world or nymphs and eclairs
A world of cream filled ambiance
With little if no air
Because there you are
Mr. Congested
King of the airless
Now you cross your arms across your paunchy belly
And jiggle just the slightest bit
As the train carries you away
Somewhere without eyeglasses
Somewhere without belts
Where your features are royal
Signs of character
Without flaw
Somewhere as perfect as a sunken castle
In a fish tank
With plastic bullion
And little bubbles escaping from a chest
Rising to the top of nothingness
But away from you
You need only a trident
And a flowing robe of seaweed
In the deep
Lost in green and blue and brown
--
7.9.09