The City of My Future’s Past

Beside a neon yellow bell clock
That for the past twenty years
Has sold the same stenciled time
And screamed only once

A grown-up boy scout might still be caught
Swallowing some Fred Flintstones
While thumbing the only string
On a detuned banjo

That he will insist is his guitar.
He’s wearing cut-off blue jeans
And a Texas pair of quick spurs–
Collecting those nickels, pennies,

Quarters, dimes, and the dust of some heavy
Duty concrete rubble, as this post-punk cowboy
Stands drunk next to two heavy-weight wastrels
Who’ve come furbelowed like a bad dose

Of Batman and Robin, rapping some whack!
About an ‘alien karate mouse’ & ‘a poodle’s fetus.’
Across the street, the string tied to a red balloon
Floats from a child’s hand and up to Venus.

I watch it float. I am that child.