grind

September 4, 2016 § 2 Comments

the crank on the street organ
needs grease

but the only one it seems to bother

          is the monkey 
he is stomping his miniature fez

out of frustration

as the elderly 

return coins to their pockets
customer service

it seems

disgusts

them more and more lately 
every seventh note is a metallic squeak 

              the grinder grinds away

no closer to the rent 

than he was this morning
the monkey just stripped off his

vest and is pissing in the potted

petunias over at the sidewalk cafe
I’m too tired to try to understand it all

too tired to wrap it all up

into a tidy metaphor for our

collective insanity 

so I turn in to the closest tavern I see
it’s nice

just me and the barkeep 

a gentleman’s agreement 

to not speak
and the monkey 

glowering

over his little tin cup of beer
(c) 2016 Fred Whitehead 

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