“Forks in Friday’s Froward Firth”
Forks in Friday’s froward firth
On eight-lane super highways to hell and back, in both directions;
Safety cones strewn about the yellow brick road; indiscretions;
No raucous radical, no geometric formulæ, no mystic mirth
From de facto maps of undistributed middle turns in the present tense:
It’s Friday afternoon, and no stacked chairs
to reckon the week’s rally’s slugs and snails.
How, sir, from where I was did I get here? Sure, boss! “Meet ya there,”
And anywhere’s better than being hedged in by headlamps ‘cross the middle rails,
Hip hop braying radios, dragons’ tails red and amber, weekly visitors in dusts
And exhausts, but I am not deceived: the idylls’ horns are two in number,
Left confirms the wildebeests in search of Friday’s former wonder;
Right leads to peace and comforts in so little news, no wanderlust,
“Do not pass Go!”, no quick collection fixed in prepaid credit lines, cash
Flows and yellow ribbons strewn about the highway on a another Friday’s crash.