En Route - Ams-Rott

Chuck the snow, chuck the clouds,
chucks the cows and the stallions.
Empty all poetic baggage.
The rhythms of the train, graffiti on the walls,
ducks bobbing, birds in pattern,
families with flowers on the Sabbath.
Gothic towers, couples on bicycles, couples canoodling,
deciduous trees, flowers, grass (not pot), (but that too).
How deep must I dig into my pockets to
turn them inside-out? Lakes, rivers, oceans,
sun-rises-sets, women, queues,
family, kevin, keegan. When will the magician learn,
now is not the time for tricks? Don't grab
the rabbit by the ears – castrate it, so it will never return.
Let go the birds and the balloons... The magician’s wife
waits. Who will she see tonight? The trickster or her true
love. The magicians' cape and hat have to be auctioned.
There will be many buyers, but none who want to dedicate
a lifetime to these accessories. They are collectors - of collectibles
and cupboards - where the dried bones of the magician
are on display. Dogs won't buy them out of fear
of licking a pussy. Even skeletons have pockets
full of football fields, last minute goals and untouched
houses; chimneys (full) of soot, kitchens filled with perishable
items. Bones cannot be pickled, they are ground and served
as ayurveda. God forbid, someone was prescribed magician-
dust and they took home the medicine. Perhaps
they have lovers, wives or mothers who will ask them
to empty their pockets.