Rick Bursky
I Sleep Better Since I Became a Surrealist
Now I spend my time waiting for a herd
Of elephant-shaped clouds to float past
While a Goldenbacked Three-Toed Woodpecker writes
On my 1937 Remington Typewriter. And I’ve stopped looking
For heaven on Google Maps and don’t care
If my wings are seen through my shirt
Or if my horns poke through my hat.
I carry a whip so the wasps keep their distance.
Sure, I killed their queen, but they’re not going to spend
Their twelve days trying to even the score.
I replaced the .38 Smith & Wesson in my pocket
With a pop gun — let the chips fall where they may.
I was once trapped in phone both on a rainy day
As a growling dog circled, called home but no one answered
And that finally no longer matters. I don’t care
If every nuance swears to tell the truth
And nothing but the truth. Now the barking at night is
From the dogs buried in the backyard, oh, how they loved me.
Dogwood Alchemy, print & online