Brunel’s Butt’ry Sanwidge Shoppe

Six fat motorbike-men,
the chromehorse-stable to the side
by the dormant tracks,
speak gruff ‘n all the same
(There’s a fleet of feet
on boards that break the water,
padd’ling with their long, long sticks.).


Collection time for someone;
someone’s stuff is there;
it’s Thurteefore’s.

      “Thurrteefighv?! Thurteesix?!”

No relation.
Relatively cold,
this breezesome morning – bracing
(A wolf?! No – a husky dog!)
[An engine neighs at the stables
saying (loudly): “I’m ignited!”
making ev’rybody jump.].


People write beep for a car-horn,
but I could swear
it just went:


Free-verse is
you know.
Itzyer thoughts out-loud,
with random punctuation.

      Ah, the ragman draws circles,
      up ‘n down the block…

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