END OF SUMMER BLUES

 

The pollen count was knocked unconscious

by the rain’s many hands this afternoon.

I - who am but a flower-head flitting capriciously

in the Allen Ginsberg breeze sometimes -

 

heard it from the spacious hall downstairs.

I thought of a bass-drum stuffed with a pillow.

The Western medication had slowed me down.

I yearned for something to do here in the sticks.

 

For katabasis, humour and gravity it is good

to have a dog but we don’t at the moment.

Traditionally in boyhood one might design

a menu for an imaginary pub in such weather.

 

These days it would be more like a spreadsheet

containing the spider-diagram of a brainstorm.

I took a sudden interest in the dust that lies

at the bottom of things, and became happy.