Poetry

Don’t catch that urban sprawl
free-for-all, where every tom dick and harry in town is lookin to lay his eggs in the hive. That busy Queen bee is meant to be in the concrete jungle, but not this here joe. Ain’t no pleasure of mine neither, but a recipe for disaster if you ask me. I’d much rather fly the coop; set my boots in manure, tend to the cows and saddle ma’tractor. A real man, at least, tills the land he treads on and eats the fruit of his own labor. Not herded about like sheep in the endless streets without a shepherd. But I reckon all that pollutin’ is a turnin’ their minds to some kinda mush. Kinda like them zombie folk–the walking dead. Er, somethin’ rather. Road rage, shootin’n robbin’and a hoopin’n hollerin’ at one another. Killin’ one another. Quite the crooked circus don’t ya think? Don’t be goin’ around catchin’that urbanitis you hear? Cause its a gettin’ around pretty good.

Benjamin Thomas

Writers Digest April poem a day challenge day 7