Rebound
There’s something wrong with his salt shaker,
Hunts ketchup erases it, But it isn’t really that,
It’s the ring on Ralph’s ugly thumb,
He isn't happy with his shaker or band he wants sugar,
and coffee. he speaks: "I want a rebound!"
I wonder at rebound as the deep seeded scowl
streaks across the burnt umber of Ralph’s brow. "rebound
my 5 o'clock bean, rebound it, now."
Something in his sifted shadowy face overwhelms
his large abscessed nose, as it's hairy toothbrush smirks.
He speaks only four words, but 'rebound',
is what perplexes me; rebound lights my story fire.
Covered in layers of lumberjack outlet apparel,
Ralph's skeleton reverberates a different rebound.
The philosophical secret of rebound crouches behind
him in the machinery of a juice cooler, with a celestial glow of iridescent,
blue and silver, waiting to explode, to attack a black toboggan cap.
Waiting to rebound the coat hangers, waiting to rebound
the black and brown smoked suits into the frosty air,
of Queens, of Brooklyn of all Burroughs everywhere.
Yet, nothing can move. All is stilted by, rebound,
and the other salt shaker, The stronger one.
The one in the fore ground with tall Red,
fructose syrup, it's rebounding boundaries
only speak of rebound when they should know of refill.
