Our Village

(after Tina Morris’ The Tree)

that is to say
not Miss Minx’s underground highway
but our lane of Gulam Smithy
was once come into
by mud-luscious fruit sticks.

Mr. Mark rapped nick-a-nack knuckles
upon bark, flooby loo, flooby loo,
“I don’t give an E=mc2
for the last tree in Kikirikee
oh mad girlie whirl,”
he gruffed.

The Texas sun kapowed,
a volatile chemical crow crawked.
A servomotor went
chopcherry   chopcherry   chopcherry
echoing through the concrete mall.