Deep Sleep of Foreigner's Flagon

For twenty years, Tears in-between, Rain and rust And gray-beard dust. A flooded flagon, Empty-dry. Laid aside. A spook to his wolf, savior to the squirrels. A languid man snores While robins lay eggs In his briery beard. Blue and yellow eyes Startle awake. Oh what trouble To sleep all night! The Kaatskills mock, In torment Of bygone years, This stinking man and his tangled long beard. Dame Van Winkle’s Not dead from grief, But from restless lips Of donnybrook. Like all ages, past to future, Politics ticks and tocks. Rip hangs upon the pendulum, Not knowing which side he’s on. His daughter’s his savior. His namesake’s his doppelgänger. The old man rises from the hills, Baffled and half-moon shy. Kim Rodrigues © 2017 This might amuse those who know the story of Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving.