January 31, 2008

A third Person Persona Poem: Parklands


Fletch squats his fat butt down onto the

fibrulous bench

where it sways, half belched,

in the decaying park.

The children fight and play

while Fletch smokes fat Rothmans

and itches his ears

with his newspapers.

Business sheets. Thick and pink as

his hands:

Twice as useless and unstudied.

Sometimes kids swing, or point out his

slow eyes. Thighs.

Trees recoil without cannons,

the bark

crenillating and slow.

Watched. Creaked autumns and Sundays

and Mondays and spring,

buttonholing the days.

Fletch likes the park.

In his pocket, there is a ring

that his older sister

left by the stove.

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