Fred Aiken Writing

sugar fountains bleeding up river

as the spike in blood pressure

comes from thousands of needles tapping

over dermis as a shouting match ensues,

creating havoc played out in strings

unmatched, by phalanges still in motion,

frozen to the touch, back into a corner

while the ultimate orchestra plays the last song

of a sugar high speeding through a small town’s

avenues, paved with potholes and children playing

as their parents turn, churn their

sweet tea on the front porch,

wishing it was lemonade,

wishing they were still young,

yet they’re still in their pajamas waiting for Christmas,

jolly folk comes the brand that knows nothing

of modesty,

a travesty,

of decency,

while flagrantly parallel parking in the mayor’s spot,

only to be told

the jukebox doesn’t play their song,

and they need to leave town,

leave town at night,

while it’s dark, or at least dusk