Dry ice, black eyes, no peace, all bravery,
all ears, all sights as sounds, as archery,
up high, down low, too slow, the knavery
of black knights in tears felled by treachery:
Let us not call it a feud, the matter
was misguided enough to look away,
to turn the cheek and to close the chatter
till the next chapter's subject steals away:
I used to watch Gumby as Quixote
in the spaces of clay tablets-as-books;
each Rocinante is also Pokey;
Blockheads – knaves – Goo blues Dulcinea's looks:
Escape within, it brooks no gallantry:
Dry eyes, black ice, no breaks for peasantry.
urbansonnets 