Cool breezes herald the arrival
of neutral sanity among the folks
who pitter patter through the streets
relieved yet ever saddled with
life's promissary notes, in gold.
Then there is me, a stranger now
a drifter with unknown intentions,
a jaw so tight that people hear
the grinding of the trusty molar guard.
A monkey, stuffed, hangs on a string
and sways above the rosewood dash
as if to show appreciation for the tune
of melancholy and bipolar happiness
content, agreeing with his master
both demons of insane velocity.
He nods his head and grins with teeth
so white that silent lightning flashes
accompany the alabaster dance
of straight Teutonic lines, dividing
as they do, so orderly, within the law
the cubic inches of the ones who have
from common citizens, still filled with hope.
As clouds appear to hurry home
to some unknown and worthy paradise,
he bites his nails in bitter privacy
only the monkey senses the uncertainty
so unaware of it, oblivious to destiny.