Maybe I’m in bump denial,
speeding in suburban streets,
never showing patience while
asphalt tumors shake the seats
of the vehicle I drive,
always pressing on regardless;
if I did not, I’d not thrive,
but leave you, dear reader, bardless.
Bear with me despite the bumps,
with your seat belt on enjoy
cards I deal you, if not trumps,
or an ace, perhaps a roi,
which is French for king, and I,
with honi soit qui mal y pense,
hope while driving you awry
you won’t mind my nonchalance.
3/3/06
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem