Their monochromatic faces hovered at the store again,
flying like black dragons at a seaside kite festival,
making me wonder why no one ever laughs at them.
Stoic humor is dead, I guess; lost in the bright-siding.
Oolong tea, better served hot, first withers in the sun.
It’s left to oxidize, tortured for taste, and later it’s twisted.
That’s how it is in our stockroom, but we laugh at our ills.
On the floor, we glad-hand our customers without guilt.
Even Mr. Thomson and the Peck family are welcomed.
Then, by lunch time, we’re back laughing straight faced.
We employ the art of Wade clowns and Chekhov plays
to get us through long, dark, boorish days. Fishermen!
We’re trolling the backwashes, waist deep: Set the hooks.
K. Shawn Edgar | Writer | Telepath | Fixed Gear 45×17