The city wind frisks the grass,
which it suspects of being black,
as it found were the trees
once strip-searched of their leaves.
Now the trees again are caught
and by the wind forced to talk
about anything they might know
of the lawlessness now at home.
Threats are issued, inquires raised
about who it was that dared to raise
from the top of the tallest tree,
the emblem of the wind's enemy.
A black and gratuitous flag,
sign of irrational, random acts,
above the city madly flaps,
in the form of a plastic bag,
before the wind whisks it away
as it swoops on the grass
again for carrying blades.
David R. Jones
* (Ballad of the
Anarchic Forces of Metropolitan Paranoia).
If you've any comments on this poem, David R. Jones would be pleased to hear from you.