The Quill Driver
Scratch of quill on paper draws
complex arabesques on forms.
This xerach man, dried out by heat
made leathery by the sun.
He’s gristle and bone, no itch
easily scratched, a hard snitch
to cross out despite errors.
He’s a flash in the law’s pan.
Zigzagging his way through days
avoiding deadfall and mud,
lachesism makes him wish
for a tornado’s swift kiss.
Its rough and tumble wind’s clasp,
which makes him tremble at thoughts
of those winds swirling him ’round
inside that massive cone ’till numb
and spent, his pulse races on.
He salivates for a taste
of wind-driven excitement.
Such thoughts upturn his bird cage
sets his Kookaburra free.
Jaundiced hands knocked its cage.
It flies, obey’s nature’s call
wing to branch to freedom found.
Behind wistful verses wait.
The Quill Driver inks his pen
yields to pages that call him
to write garbled lines of verse.
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