In his own name, sarcasm and irony
were embedded like his own head stuck
right through the edge of
the cliff he tried crossing
with all those light-bulb ideas—
skis on wheels,
bow with himself as the arrow,
hot-air balloons stocked with sticks
of dynamite. Road runner always
took off with a beep-beep and a puff
of dust like the one he left at the bottom
after falling off the edge. Fade out,
fade in, and he’s still alive to dream up
another over-complicated contraption
only to get blown up by his own
dynamite again. And he could’ve made it
so much simpler if he realized
road-runner meat
won’t satisfy
after all.
(This poem submitted for Dragons and Creatures month at Tweetspeak Poetry. Add your contribution to the mix!)
