I am woke,
Yet living in a nightmare
Of prejudice.

Giddy-up to Goofey-land,
Saddle up the pachyderms;
Ain't Florida grand.
They click and cluck
Don't give a ****;
They kiss... kiss...kissing
And yet they're missing
The white hat way of life.
They know squat,
And that ain't a lot,
As they ride off
In all directions.

Walking  haunts is enlightening.
Your Centennial Spruce over there,
Grew straight for over fifty years.
Your home is no longer the dark chocolate I layered.
The recent owners are unknown to me.

Neither change nor inactivity
Is necessarily progressive.
I mean, I like the new colour,
And Magnolia trees have vibrant blossoms.
Yes, modulations and mutations are as inevitable
As clock hands gliding silently through time.

Grandparents don't have interesting dens.
Art galleries befuddle me.
Roads get shaved and paved in one passing.
Houses come Pre-fab.
We are the Spruce trees,
And the exterior walls,
Waiting
For a box-lunch.

There's no water
In my well;
No pulley,
No bucket
On the end of a rope,
For you.

There's no water
In the cup
Of poison
I spew.

It's not your business,
But you asked;
Don't.
There are bigger concerns,
The phone lines are open.
Attend a town hall;
Write an editorial.
Churches have eager ears
That listen in the dark
Behind oak lattice.
You could walk away
With three Hail Marys,
And a slew of Glory Be's.
But I have a question for you,
What's your business?

We first sexed in a tumbling, fumbling manner;
The time had come, it seemed to us,
To consummate our ****** lust.

The Valley was shakin' to The Rocks,
A popular Irish band;
We'd had our fill,
I sparked the engine,
And parked my bike on Techumseh Hill.

The summit was dew damp;
We spread wide our pants,
Not knowing who should go for whom,
So we relented to the crescent moon;
I acquiesced to the shooting stars,
Then my eyes found hers.

Diverse moons have filled my nights,
Long since the grassy knoll.