the wind as passerby
wood turn the pages
of the sky o’er Alf
hard by a hydrant,
what time his watch,
a wind-up dolor
as an organ grinder
monkeys with accord,
who, in fact, re-reads
the selfsame self-help
upside-down without
a monocle, but capped;
‘tho Alf, I wonder why,
takes no note all that,
the litter in pursuit
of bicyclists who lost
their signals by the bell,
while Alf less hapless
winks, as each agree
halfway in the path,
to stuff of pockets of
admissive tickets
to exhibit noon
till three or four
in queue museum,
Nov. 1:13,
wherein ‘Found Art,
& BYO ‘tho’
as it is A.M…