Storm Bird

Darkness at the break of noon
threatens the new born babies thrill.
The Blackbird's flight is followed
his song rippling the air,
blissfully ignorant of sonic boom.
A red lamp flashes awakens
the still godforsaken guard, to allow
him time; to think, to swallow, to stare.

Shadows eclipse industrious drinkers
stealing the last dregs
ringing out the last order.
The office worker takes off his blinker,
lifts out his brain from the nose bag,
is blinded, phoning his mother.






Rod White

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