Black Sheep, Lone Wolves and Red Headed Step Children
Somewhere,
an empty Mountain Dew bottle
sitting on a sandstone fence post
suddenly begins to weeze and moan
in sweet country harmony
with the wind’s sad cowboy song.
Somewhere,
a stiff suburban mummy
stares blankly into his
2,751st consecutive hour
of television.
No one has come calling in years.
No one has noticed
the slight sickly sweet odor
of wasted irony.
Somewhere the placid dreams
of a dethroned beauty queen
are stirred by the thought
of a distant dying star
like a leaf falling
on the surface of a pond.
And just before dawn,
we’ll all be drawn up from
the fathomless well of sleep
to come face to face
with the mongrel faces
of the real we;
the prodigal, near-primordial hybrid
of the black sheep,
the lone wolf
and the red-headed
stepchild of which
so many half-jokingly,
half-nervously speak.
