Tuesday, November 24, 2020

The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me. Section Seven.

 



There are mysterious items

in the landscape that I never

quite figure out.

Those dull olive green

mailboxes without a slot.

What are they for?

The mailman keeps his lunch in them.

Or an umbrella. Galoshes.

An apparatus to communicate

emergencies

to Headquarters via shortwave:

"We have a Code Red --

a little kid nosing around.

Repeat, nosing around.

Should I take him out?"




Stuck to the side of my house

like a lamprey eel

is the baffling glass bubble

with tiny arrows spinning around

and around.

Around and around,

slow and fast.

Never stopping.

Round and round she goes

and where she stops

nobody knows.

What do we win

if they do stop? 

A trip to Hawaii

I betcha.

Or a pink Cadillac

for my dad to drive to

work at Aarone's Bar & Grill.

Or will it simply dispense

Green Stamps?




Most intriguing and sinister of all

are the grates and 

manhole covers.

They must lead to

Pellucidar.

To the abode of 

the Morlocks.

To the Comstock Lode.

I peer into them for

hours

for signs of life.

"Stop fiddling with that

manhole cover! You want

to crush your fingers?"

I saw an iron manhole cover

lifted up with a crowbar.

So now I know the Open Sesame.

Where to get one . . . 

Wayne Matsuura's dad must have one.

He has everything that's useful

in his garage.

I badger Wayne

until he finds a small one 

hanging on the pegboard. 
Now he and I will unravel

underground wonders

and terrors

that will turn people's

teeth blue.

But before we get started

there's a summer cloudburst.

The storm water sewer system

goes into backwash mode

and two-hundred pound

cast iron manhole covers

pop out of the ground like

champagne corks.

Following by geysers

of filthy water.

An apocalyptic warning

for two little boys

to put the crowbar back

go inside

and watch 

My Mother the Car



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