puddles

rain fell
in shifts upon poor
Ungertown as
the march of the dada
tore apart
the
adjoining coffee shops
lining the boulevard





we shout yes
yes
as
a scoundrel tramples
the flower shop down the way





and then the ancient three
toed god
of the ending hour stands and clamors
for
the ears and wounds of the
sad sad
as they climb into the puddle





we now and ever
are
kept and when the puddle is dried
again the gods
rejoice the dada
are free!