by Jack Tricarico
A wheel is an arm
Though not yet a skyscraper
And as mother explained
In her eleven fingered way
Three is an anchor in fog
As for this incinerated drift
Grey matter vacationing in fire
Perhaps, I must at least pretend
I am raining sideways today
How else to endure
The consequential drought
Of common sense
Thankful for the wave
That covers me
And won’t even stop
For a pair of crutches
In distress
