The Decline of the American Doorbell

Whatever happened to the days of the doorbell inspector?


that soul
uptight
little man-
the one that would come to you,
with nose in the air
glasses drifting back and forth
dependent only on the angle of neck tilt

He would come to your home
ring your bell...
if you answered
he'd collect his fare

if no one obliged his tolling
he would
notarize
appropriately

It's been a long many days
and he believes
he must be
the only
person
alive
with a working doorbell

to think, he once pitied the poor telephone dialer, the voiceless voice spinning the disc to gain the line, only to be hung up on, dial-tones and disconnect.

…and he's begun to construct an updated resume

as he heard that there may be an opening

in the department of oxygen.

The Wombat and the Wolverine

As the Wombat licks clean the leaves

From a perch amongst the spacious trees

A wolverine in search of food

Observes a Caribou through

An undistributed rocky ledge

To which it drools a puddle

Of hunger and desire,

Engage it does,

Expedient and free,

Only to get snared

In a web so wide and deep,

Thrashing, claws provoked

Each limb further wrapped

With each thrust and movement

The spider who designed this trap

Toggles the fringes in passive wait

Until the wolverine’s will disintegrates

Giving the Wombat a most unexpected show




Reposted for Poetry Picnic 34: Plants, Creatures and the Cosmos.