For Wile E. Coyote

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!)