Sunday, June 26, 2005


ups, downs,
rides with clowns;
car’s too small.
‘nother pratfall?
therapy, pills,
fever and chills–
doing time
for the climb.

so it goes.
everyone knows
life’s not fair;
don’t much care.
why should you?
tell it true;
tell it, man.
who else can?

tell the crowd;
make it loud.
check your paint,
your restraint,
honk your horn;
it’s why we’re born,
who we are–
we ride the car.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

This sort of started as a poem about depression...then went its own merry little way. I suppose it's a metaphor for performing or something like that. Shucks, if I knew what the poems were actually about I wouldn't need to write them.

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