The Purpling

a poem by Nick Montfort

I am at a big reprehensible obstacle, you know. Your amusement park is closing for the day, maybe the season, and I stand here with a handful of tickets and no cotton candy. It's a good thing they didn't make me a fund manager. This will at least provide some peace for the neighboring scribes, who will stop throwing their shoes into the noisiest rollercoaster. It is as if a tremendous and well-attended steel-driving competition is going on and I have been assigned the role of the steam drill. Why is it that as I gaze out into the sky above the urban night a tunnel is what is hammered home? Perhaps the opaque dome of the heavens, lacking constellation, and the occasional commuter thrum are enough to accomplish that, the tunnel finished, the dig dug. Any way you cut it you're in transit, rocks and hard places everywhere. I could grit my teeth, or growl, or hum, but there's always the option of getting back to work and singing.