Monday, October 30, 2006
Dial-A-Ride
An insomniatic grasshopper
fills the first-fall night
with an insistent, low telephone ring.
I’d like to rip his wings off!
He’s out there humming
like the timpani skin
at the back of the band room
singing, “You have no rhythm.”
His are the ten-thousand hands
that won’t pick up.
