by Christopher Walsh, 6/1/2014
And the world slaps you.
Every person you see as you walk slaps you.
That tree branch slaps you.
That fly wing slaps you.
An angry, drunk squirrel slaps you (with its tail).
A cat, of course, slaps you.
Each flying fish jumps out of the water next to you and slaps you, deflecting itself just enough to fall back into the water. It slaps the surface, but at least not you again.
But leaves slap you.
Flowers slap you.
A dog, somehow, slaps you.*
Gnats slap. Not you, just the air; you're merely and unluckily in the way.
Sudden rain drops slap you.
The bass from a passing car slaps you, and slaps you, and slaps you.
In time for exhaust fumes to slap you.
More leaves slap you.
Unexpected reflections slap you.
THE SUNLIGHT SLAPS YOU. (Oo, burn.)
A thought slaps you.
...written because too much of my poetry has very, very little action in it. Hey, gotta stretch somehow.
* Reminds me: Harlan Ellison once said (seriously? jokingly?) that one of the dumbest lines he's ever written was "the mad dogs have kneed us in the groin."
This poem © Christopher Walsh, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.