by Richard Murphy
Sticks and carrots move the stones
among the population that scurries
from one side of the road to the other.
The garden of price and pain
grows no knowledge carrying in branches
the promise of bliss. Eternal
rewards and brass ages united
the past and future in prayer
against the motivational sneakers
haunting lure and lash. Now and again,
sacks of dirt and pubic hair shirts
occupy the minds with chores.
The orange illusion one hangs
in front of one’s nose has
its roots deep in the wishes
of a horse exposed to the switch
from trophy to weapon. Drives
cart the ass and the fox through fields
of energy and magnetism. Spurs and spas
turn the corners of anyone’s back
day or night. Least resistance
draws the path into focus,
and the gnashing of teeth along
the route keeps even the hero
plodding until a stomach is full
when people hit the hay and disappear.
