there’s no drought about it
the fountain shouts
with an overwhelming bout of color-lit water
in a passionate fit of fashion it pours out its inner most need
neither avarice nor greed
simply the seed of a self-centered flower.
the thundercloud booms
taking up more room in an overcrowded encounter
its war-torn form pours out scorn on the earth
an attempt to briefly reassert
the importance of a morning shower.
jack strong and muscularly weighted
from bench press freight greatly elevated
struts about the beach
nakedly painted speedos now activated
nothing left to chance
debating with himself if he’s x or r-rated
jill scantily clad
in the latest thonged fad
lays and bathes in the rays she maintains that she craves
though she’s here mainly to daze,
haughtily take off her shades,
and occasionally faze any stray
make-a-play braves that come by
to gaze and throw lines her way.
the ocean roars
as its tidal waves pour onshore to make the sea forcefully screech forth
in a rampage of rage it sweeps the front page
of the island town paper
and make those that survive
cower from it self-asserting power
i am important!
i am here!
not, i am not!
i am of significance!
i am something you don’t see everyday in the bathtub!
when i chose to be
i am not not there!
the little dog
using it claws
digs making an impression
on Peterson’s ground
knowing its work should be remembered after it’s gone
wraps up the morning
by watering the lawn.
— Zumwalt (1990)