Monopoly on Peace

I’ve sewn a tapestry. . .

with barrows of sh*t,

and lacking thimble

–it was a rug destined

to be pulled.

Unironed, and

flimsy defense

from cannon fire–

a cover ill-suited

to race cars

–and the drivers of race cars–

it resembled nothing so much

as a blanket for horse

–just that the rider stayed mounted–

as riders will

when shoes are mud-caked

and the ground beneath shifts

and teems with feral dogs

that snap at hoof,

but revisiting my top hat

(concealing hare, and colored veil)

I chuck it all

and vacation–

setting sail on battle ship

to nearby shore–

I jettison arms en route

–wreck lessly—

hanging onto

the thread

that weaves

~fashioning

different

life lines~