A crater full of water

                     separated the two schools.

                     Neither would pay for the fill

                     required to make a road

                     again after an idea by Archimedes.

                     A series of arrows pointing away

                     confusing if you didn’t

                     and just stood there.

                     As if cars would even bother

                     to be driven down around

                     on their comfort for hire side.

                     The parents were growing nervous

                     keeping track of little Johnie

                     encouraging him to wear flags

                     discernible above the smoke

                     and wet stylistically demanding hair.

                     A truce was negotiated

                     by an out of work sky writer who

                     wrote, “Fuck it!” in the clouds.




                    Cortez? He sleeps on a bundle of rags

                    during the day, old towels and tattered tea-cloths.

                    At night he is at the dog track.

                    He does reasonably well most nights

                    enough to buy a mother’s girl.

                    No Isabel but courtesan-ish.

                    She is privy to his brutality thinks

                    it a waste of money and pain.

Colin James has a book of poems Resisting Probability from Sagging Meniscus Press and a chapbook A THOROUGHNESS NOT DEPRIVED OF ABSURDITY.
He lives in Massachusetts.

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