Life diplodocuses.
Monday crouches against
the nerwherwell of Sunday and
we spring to action,
workers on the grand backward-dashing conveyor.
There are nightcrawlers, big tough ones,
moving across the darkened firing-range
toward targets of silhouette men,
heart areas blown out.
No wonder the barbequeing
neighbors are singing “Drop kick me Jesus
through the goal posts of life!”