The Statistics of Hover

Folder: 
Vintage Words

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What is it that hovers at the

tip of my collar, illusive

as the breath of a newborn,

decidedly present? Hovering.

Something has the city on the edge.

Drivers are misreading the road

running down wrong ways.

O-turns in the middle of Woodward.

Undecided on which is the shortest

route home.

.

What is it that makes hoodlums

jump in the back of open hatches?

They wait, street corner idle,

doing the in the street hover.

Invisible. Watching.

.

When did the security of the city

end? Four men in a fast sedan

used to frighten us. Now we wonder

where we went wrong. Gestapo

leather had a presence when

the good guys wore black, bereaved

for the thugs, putting fear in

the innocent and the conspicuous.

We do not build prisons for the step

losers, we build barricades for

ourselves the civilized way.

.

Freedom is an anachronism. I use

it rarely now-a-days to decrease

confusion. The impermeable passage

of time likely brings no more trouble

than before my hours of pains taking

notations. We subsist, waiting.

.

The things we dread are poised

to appear. Ready on the moment

to strike corporeal out of hover

status and become the guilt

and grievousness we earned.

.

allets

03-29-86

 

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Author's Notes/Comments: 

Yes, I wrote this in 1986. 

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Not Too Bad

written in 1986 - yeah. I was some pain in the . . . then. I was young, 36 dahlin'!