Slam Saturdays: The Curve

It was just a curve.

A tiny curve

Made of evenly grooved cement.

In the crux of its arms,

Limbs that tickled meadow and woods,

It held a proud pole.

Haughty because it was no longer just a stick,

Raw and uncouth,

Rooted in the thick sludge of the forest floor.

Mais non!

Now its very head buzzed with the telephonic goings on of the human world.

One quiet morn,

Struggling with the dreadful bundles of ice and snow,

The curve shifted.

And the pole,

Bored with its new siblings

And lusting for adventure,

Jumped into my car.

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