There’s no peace at
St. Emmeram’s brüke today,
blueberry blanket
by a drainage pond.
French dog barking, his
owners tap his mouth, calmer,
as each new face across covered
bridge brings a bubbly burp
of bark to the surface.
A herd of goblin children
short legs, long screams,
form a pack around the perimeter
of the cess-pond,
and every few minutes
one shouts, “Mama!”
Looks frantic all around
as if its only anchor in the world
moved on, leaving it
marooned on muddy speilplatz.
The pound of seesaw like
the punching of a strong man booth–
two seats thudding, never empty.
Then, the blades begin
beating the white icing clouds,
fluffing them with sound,
a helicopter circles round,
which of course starts the French pouch’s
aboiement flow,
No, there’s surely no peace at
St Emmeram’s brüke today.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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