Captain's Quarters

Cliff Saunders

 

Somebody's had too much to think.

                                       --Don Van Vliet

You sit inside a radar station

fingering a console of dials,

wearing a mask in the shape of a trout.

Outside, torrents of clothespins

fall from the sky and slap the walls

of your domed fortress, clogging

the drain spouts, rendering

your radar screen useless.

The noise is driving you mad!

You rise from the console,

step over a coiled snake

with mascara around its eyes,

and open the door to the station.

All around you, clothespins

cover the grass and dangle

from branches and high-tension lines.

Taking a deep breath, you exhale

through the lips of the mask and blow

the clothespins back to the clouds,

which themselves tumble away.

You step into the autumn sunlight

and pull a paper punch from your pocket.

Climbing a nearby boxwood,

you punch holes in the leaves

and stare at the laser-width sunbeams

that pass through. And you sit on a branch

into the night, thinking: Where are you

hiding now, O shiny beast of thought?