A Mid Spring's
Day Dream
(All Apologies
to Shakespeare)
by Robert C. J. Graves
Big Chet and I
drank a twelve of the Best, happy as kids eating
Whistle Pops, just fishing, bitchin ‘bout
the Browns’ season, and whiners like Randy
Moss.
Soon Chet, drunk Chet who loves birds, had to go
chase the call of a blue heron, but ’long
the way back to our best spot, he stepped in a
bear trap, silver with razor webs of rust, that
bit him hard and held.
Knavish fool,
in his drunken bemoan he cried not for help, but
‘stead resigned himself on his Bottom to
song.
Iron Man, Stairway to Heaven, Freeze Frame, he
sang every song he knew the words to, and as fate
would always have it, Chet was a lucky Puck, for
his singing charmed a smokin' hot Faerie Queen.
Meanwhile, I
had passed out on the dock but awoke as the earth
shook when at nearby Wright/Pat’ Air Force
Base crashed a billion dollar Stealth Bomber.
In my bibulous brain the flames seemed a load
star. "Please let that be Air Force One,"
I said aloud—as these were the W.
years—and turned to Chet, absent Chet, for
reply.
Combed I the
nearby bosky grove for my friend, but the crash
smoke eclipsed the day.
Luckily, I kicked Chet’s beer can left like
Thisbe’s bloody mantle beside the empty trap.
Tuned by this clue, followed I faint song soon to
be discerned as a symphony of birds conducted by
the Faerie Queen rocking most triumphant whilst
Chet lyrics belted.
I joined them, and rocked we hard, but soon woke
in an ambulance with IVs in our arms.
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