The March Of The Snails Poem by David Peacock

The maniacal ombudsman post rabbits and ribbons that stretch taut and firm across the curly canyon of Connecticut.
Pink dingoes run along the serpentine rocks, diving into the crinkle water that smells like soap.
Whenever I see these things, my thoughts wander along a muddy path with overgrown shrub and brittle chaparral,
round leaves with rigid veins,
box type leaves with a verdant orange or blue black underbelly.
The sun shines mauve and the moon glow green.
My ticket to paradise is accepted by the tall woman with purple ears and washboard eyes.
The boat leaves port and my enthusiasm beats loudly like African drums.
I find a pencil in my knapsack and write this poem on the ticket takers thigh.