Poem-A-Day: Day 61

The Old Saloon

A heretic of the modern age
as I sit listening to myself debasing
the fore fathers , four fathers,
four horsemen of my apocalypse.
They provide a calypso tune
for my ears to prune,
sprucing up the hum drum room
of a brain I call disaster.
It’s not so much a transport
as it is the sporting transfer
from bus to bus,
subway to subway,
sent packing on byways and highways,
driving down parkways,
and parking in driveways.

But if I had it my way,
it would all be beat box dreams
in western saloons,
dropping rhymes like saliva
in dusty spittoons.