John Lyday lives and writes in Southern California.
A lithesome youth takes to the field.
A stouter heart no man could wield.
Alone he stands against a host.
In front, a single guard they post,
A dog named Pups and a cat named Kitty,
together they roam the city.
But it’s not really a city, is it?
Two blocks of main street is all they visit.
America has traded in his Mercedes
For a beat up, General Motors car.
It has a fender and door of different colors.
It leaks water, burns oil and won’t go far.
I sift meticulously amidst the clutter
of my rational thought and irrational flutter,
where my hidden fissures of knowledge wind.
Some words organize and flow off the tongue.