Man In The Blue Scooter

by Samuel Derrick Rosen

The lily livered mother and her child in damask
Thinks of nothing to answer nor to ask
But to keep on blowing her resplendent trombone
In time with that indigo, lonesome bell tone

But the man in the blue scooter remains most aloof
To her properties, her fragilities, her resistance to proof
And as the tarmac melts to bull mastiffs in confusion
All is but a vaccine where there is no constitution.

He's consulted his physician, he's off to see the dentist
Soon he'll have no teeth, but no matter, he's an artist
And artists need no teeth in the land of sacred gums
Where those that master English suck organic plums

The man in the blue scooter sips a cold espresso
His third eye spies Saint Peter perform an intermezzo
In his sidewalk countenance, in his planetary chains
His sins are dead and gone he cautiously explains

Cherubs fluent in double think search in stone windows
For homages to the gravities of Chinese lantern widows
Philosophies of wooden horses, rabbits made of clay
Humpty Dumpty virtues, Little Bo Beep bouquets

The man in the blue scooter, he used to play the drums
And now he plays Othello while Desdemona hums
Hymnodies and rhapsodies secured with string and wire
By bureaucrats with handkerchiefs reeking of desire

Grandmothers with their empty baskets drown in sanity
Ash blond mutineers throw lifebuoys, seek charity
Among those that brave rotundas in the age of the linear
Storefront virgins feign amnesia, induce a cosmic tear

And the man in the blue scooter places on a square table
A litany he says is proof we have nothing to disable
Except a hollow mind that is leaning out for praise
In a place where Man's despair is a part of God's malaise.