Poem-A-Day: Day 141

My God! It’s Full of Onions

Some distinct smell of onions
wafting maniacally;
a plane flying stunts
around cavernous billows of hair
and steam.
Magically, the onions are there,
but why,
where did they come from,
the road is no place for dancing onions,
no place for dancing anything.
Yet they mock incessantly,
waltzing about the air
out of sync with all known physics,
and physics is everywhere,
physics is law above man,
above gods,
it cannot be destroyed, only altered,
matter is matter
no matter the determinant factors.
Regardless,
the onions dance,
cooking their delightful scent
upon the hapless denizens
driving to and from
wherever they come and go.
The onions don’t seem to care.
The onions are planes
skywriting mystery
into the craft of dance.