Hunting to complete a friend's ammo reload rig
to expand holes into the faltering Universe. A plastic mallet would not do.
Riding in the back of a pick up truck. Faceless driver drops F bomb
while her friend releases the bird perched on her middle finger
to a congested intersection somewhere between the sun & the world.
Asphalt shoulders sprout metaphysical no fault mushroom, canopies,
to unbrella dancers, gliding on one good leg as stumps flail in rage
against the moon & stars, incontinent hearts spill, introspective scripture
rattling from quicksilver tongue, misguided application of life interpretation,
not realizing the difference of love from desperation. I am interrupted
by an unanticipated flea market stop where I purchased an adjustable spanner
to loosen corroded nuts which hold bolts of comprehension to dementia
I fail to understand. My friend did not find his hammer that day (although I
heard through the proverbial grapevine that he ordered one from
a Craftsman's catalogue supplied by Sear's mail order, fixer of parallel
universes) and I remain happy because I have a wrench for life.