Nolan Hatcher: Poetry
Crumbly knobs
Nolan Hatcher
Crumbly knobs
Were greying at the temples,
A red-brick chateau
Still awaiting them in the suburbs.
O what had they done
With their allotted time?
What thick shake
Had they accomplished
In all that time,
In all that time?
The knobs
Were now balding,
Their ties beginning
To sag quite severely.
They looked
At what neither had done.
Crumbly knobs
Checked their hair roots
And ancestry
In the family Bible,
Removing every other
Moldy pressed flower.
Of course,
They found what they sought,
But some peculiar
Shaggy pages surprised them:
The secret of
Dry ice and eternal life
Manifest
In a chromed manifold.
Home, they thought,
In a gush of pastel hearts reaching
orgasm,
Home,
Of course!
Nolan Hatcher
Crumbly knobs
Were greying at the temples,
A red-brick chateau
Still awaiting them in the suburbs.
O what had they done
With their allotted time?
What thick shake
Had they accomplished
In all that time,
In all that time?
The knobs
Were now balding,
Their ties beginning
To sag quite severely.
They looked
At what neither had done.
Crumbly knobs
Checked their hair roots
And ancestry
In the family Bible,
Removing every other
Moldy pressed flower.
Of course,
They found what they sought,
But some peculiar
Shaggy pages surprised them:
The secret of
Dry ice and eternal life
Manifest
In a chromed manifold.
Home, they thought,
In a gush of pastel hearts reaching
orgasm,
Home,
Of course!