The telegraph posts pin verge to tarmac;

unmoved by the wind's

light o' leaf flurries with sycamores

and dalliances with dandelions.

Rigid they stand;

blind and deaf

to robin's blush and starling's shout,

summoning mates to the spring ball.

They have lines to uphold.

(Upright Citizens - Post Script

But in the sun-warmed timber of the post on the corner, sap rose

of remembered green wood, earth-hugged

roots, pollen drunk

from the breeze.

Heady on memories, he awoke

to the stop sign standing close;

an enticingly slim, aluminium redhead.

Perhaps in the dark he'd call her, slip away from the street lamp's

glare with her, and together they'd dance

for a while in the night.

He would have to break line.


The lines hold tight.)