Time and reason stopped moving,
my hair was still wet
riding in a lost taxi, in a storm,
separating hopes from reality.
“That’s not my cello.” I said
to the driver.
He insisted Haiku has 17 syllables
swerving hard left
just missing the pan handler
and his black cat.
It is the rum runners
and swindlers with their knock
off purses who control
the market place.
The poets and singers delegated
to the alley ways
their thoughts discarded
by jaded politicians and their
double talk in fast time
spinning circumstances
counter clockwise
black is white
up is down
Alleluia
bitter sweet
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