by Rich Murphy
Todestrieb and the Parasite
Around the banquet tables at the cemetery
interest, lust, hunger quit
whether or not balmed daily earlier.
Strutting the latest designs from NASA
and sporting carnival bumpers, desire endures
beyond the havenly, folding body.
The tick-talking retirement party
lunges to catch up
with someone abandoned for forty years.
At the lounge for missing persons
golf club members beat with a driver
and chase with bourbon
to squander regret and redemption.
Stepping over the corpse, the pulp fiction
(a rung, a foothold) cries an infancy
for which cultures scramble with wishes.
Oceanless, a golf ball terrorizes
with just enough space
for instant communication:
A worst enemy reaches out with a missile;
a kinder foe fumbles and the end!
Where a phone call may have driven
the point home, shock and awe explain.
The whole in won disputes,
groundless but real enough,
forgets that desire pains
on the backside with “more.”
The masseuse without discipline
kneads while the handy cap club
calls to order the green keeper.
Experience might suggest
among borders and outer space
– a net, pool pockets, foul line –
that Zen pings into pong.
However, the teeming pursuit
to compete against continues with a streak
for manicured people on Astroturf.
The Hippy Dip weathered
into a speed bump among
artificial heart, artificial intelligence,
and artificial flowers. However,
dry-docked and then moth-balled,
fleets stand ready to turn clocks
back to steamer or frigate.