Inversion by Janis Riehl I sit With a flat tire. But the sun is high And the grass is green Reflecting fire And a twist of light Within my ignominious plight. My god of status Sits in wry humor Bowing to the sky, A magnesium rim Like a bent knee thrust Into collapse of honor. But I have no cause to cry! I ponder the possibilities inching by, And sit in judgment at their negative try. Stuffed men In their tin gods Avert their eyes As they ease along Bumper to bumper; Castrate themselves In their denial, In their hurry Not to pry. Wry humor Bounces the sunlight Off of an ease of aerials; Their synapse, Receiving freeway reports That tell them Not to be Where I can see Their small transparencies. Chivalry is dead. Men have turned so far Denying their primal head, They’re apt To find themselves To have been bred Instead. © 2003 by Janis Riehl. All rights reserved. Home