Of Reaping Snails and Suchlike.

Radiant plastic whistles
cleaving 8-toothed smiles

into a darkened chamber,
that warehouse--you recall.

Still I here dream, these whistles
to little--no--avail;
that massive pressure at my back
eyes flashing salmon-bright.

Not a poet, nor a child
chew the meal and
reap the tail.

--An 8 o'clock shadow hermit (with the help of her cat, who was instrumental in determining the placement of line breaks by the inspired, intrepid manner in which he pawed the return-key of the word-processing instrument at hand)