poetic tote for an idealistic friday morning

'

bliss? uneventful footsteps, spreading like
an assembly of emblems and roses ready
to bloom. the garden traps an immigrant
in its turnstile, flight is destined.
the field, with hydro wires and termites,
consults a lone dark window in an office building late at night.

the parrot repeats. men sweeping
in the morning on a distant roadside
do not hear, take the hamburger and fries.
frites, another language might say.
a symphony tills the edges of a skyscraper,
vinegar rubs its own self-inflicted wound.
a woman, who climbs and climbs, never looking
up or down, ascends the blade of a circumvented
helicopter. there is wind.

the fencepost potrays a raindrop
beneath its colouful wings. the immigrant
shelters a family with magazines and packages
of gum. a child reads,
listens with parrot-like obedience,
parody? then, consequence is oblivious
to knowledge, readiness they might say
in battle. a pigeon not eating green olives,
an old man descending to a park bench.
acorns shouting like parents at a hockey game.
faster, over there, get rid of it!