Upon Seeing the Brightly Lit
       

At any given moment,
millions are breaking the laws.
They're driving dune buggies backwards
down the bicycle lane, crossing streets
with light bulbs in their mouths.
They're asking for help
with splintered axe-handles.
Can you mend my wing?
Could you give me a seat in the floating section?
The dubiously uniformed
break out their special notepads.
Meanwhile, we're being hammered
with outrageous radiation,
we're crouching inn chic corners
or in photographic murals
of the edge of one urban hell
or another, positioned in harmony
with the theories of productive lighting
in exclusive cafés—
We can live out nightmares
in places named after French scoundrels
lined with comfortable, high-backed couches.
Even the latest developments,
the most sure-footed, carefully worded decisions
fail to explain this dewy trek, the alleyways
littered with diamonds and decaying love letters.
Upon seeing the brightly lit little girl
loitering in the blue sky,
the officer thinks
Time for a citation—but
for this instant he's caught. He's adjusting
his sunglasses; his pen is out of ink.
He's loosening his tie, At any given moment
among the obedient apples and weapons,
millions are making Newton spin
in his grave, furiously, like a reel,
like a tiny, pounded movie reel.

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Copyright © 2011 Marc McKee All rights reserved
from Fuse
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission