Though there was no sun,
our eyes were burned and flooded
with fluorescent fog—
and we had to squint to wave away the cages.
Inside the bars
(or face-smudged glass)
the puppets stirred
to drift across their ground
and drop again,
their pulley-strings detached.

Ferns, bright green splays of ancient life,
squatted in rows behind us,
obedient to paved roads with plastic signs.
I fought at nausea growing
to smell the stench of glum sterility.
We spoke in tongues, assuming
our sounds could lift the puppets up.
But can chiming lilts grow grass when asphalt chokes the dirt?


I turned to see a little boy thrashing,
throwing his corn dog in a graphic splatter.
His face contorted,
shiny, wild,
he howled with ripped-throat passion at his mother,
but failed to wake the dozing doll within its pen.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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