by Christopher Mulrooney
broker
they tell me why it doesn’t why tell me eh
of course it could down to this
and then up to here but don’t know
why up to me
it couldn’t never panpipes and all
to a condo in Philadelphia and a farm lot out west
for the private plane and Margaret and the dogs
the worm that bit the apple
on the evolutionary ladder
good old
the propulsive speed at the blanched wilding
speaks courses of reservoirs in the main forests of Central Park
and the long days at the office end in
mirrored bedrooms and solitaires
seen it and forgotten
what a story get it down
hostages
I claim them up own
the first days regard me
with an uneven smile
it goes all around
you can see it from the back
the saintly smile
it goes down from the trickling streams on mountainsides
it gives a partial splash of success
in the bourbon
you passed over at the bar
wonderfully so
outrider dance troupe
sad-eyed on the peripheral vision of the director
it’s loopy after the fashion of men trained for the dance
an acceptable conclusion
at the fence you would say peeking about
not liking what it sees
the happy gauntlet is down
and you can believe it
whomp you upside the head
a destroyer toilet
stranded and so on a long change of scene
the world is your oyster cracker
tenuously connected somewhat goes with something
Mabel’s home pie and assorted goodies
right on the menu all you have to do is point
to coin an expression
it’s a rap party
the Jungleland cruise safari
up the wickets down the bowls
everywhere the boaters flying freely
could you the argument please sustain
across the bar doubly syncopated
around the bend into the home stretch
with a stare from hungry children after the war
commercially successful pictures with big eyes
***********************************
Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in Tulane Review, Compass Rose, Or, Pacific Review, Mot Dit, Orbis, Weyfarers, and Otoliths.
http://cmulrooney.tripod.com/ut/
painting by Sheila Lanham
The Merida Review 