Thursday Poem

The sound of crickets
slowed down to the speed of life
of humans. That is very interesting.
They sound like a ghostly choir. Who knew?
Coarse hair chopped finely into
a thin broth. The G Train is a riot.
All I need to do right now is sit
here and I can't sit still.
What really matters is the mysterious
hum of fossil fuels being burned to propel
people through space on the highway
just a hop, skip, and a jump from here.
I remember having this idea that a crazy
man lived in the woods in Georgia near
the highway. I would like to make a brief
announcement from the makers of this
poem. I would like to climb the walls
and speak into a device used for sending
messages. Oh, a scary thought. Oh, a feeling
for the Thursday air, which is cool
and refreshing. Winter is coming.
The pool in Red Hook has been drained,
leaves are swirling around the deep end
right now. Breakfast: It's a good idea.