The Holy WheelPhil Crippen
Day three was lording it over a broken wire wheel that had just two days prior slept away a team of midnight skunks rummaging. An hour before, like Swiss Army knives, the action was slick and worrisome as a brigade of nuns prayed over the spokes, desperate for a sign. Yesterday, the object was examined by a flock of truants amidst an afternoon search and rescue mission. All of them passed by, not noticing the illuminate. What seemed like minutes ago, a bolt-action buried a strike plate for the second time within one of these minutes. Five years ago, the wheel belonged to a frame, intact wrestling with metal, rocks and water.
Phil Crippen Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2019, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|