The New Playground---(from a poem written circa 1991-1993)

41 nearer to 42

shouldn't it be a time of riches

life begins at

and such, oh my how we dream

instead of-watching, waiting,

active verbs

do, jump, take, glow, bake.

Every thought is past, was,

saw the, had the, been the, write the.

Future is barely tomorrow

and mostly today

full of its forwarding-time-expireds

and envelopes of unseen cause words.

All becomes regret on the wrong

waterbed sheets in the drier

coin-op yearnings of pianos

and muted trumpets

sack the drummer and get a driver.

nails takin' on the look of fear

with thin edges and yellow stain

above the canyons above the keys

to underlocked doors behind secrets

in the hallway to see-through stairs

and chance harumphs or 'llos

from ghostbers, on Ron with a set

of polished treads that wax he sees

on Amazing something burns the flame

not the finish.

Ha'ld a zillion seconds of potry

ago with Inkpen, Sharat, Dennis clayman,

gists of words inside me like

cavemen eat lunch at the diner in my head

and somesuch gone now

into unemployment checks and angry daughters

on the phone with 700 Club boyfriends

who turn queer dads into the new jigaboos.

Yeah, that's it, resolution of solos

to theses with illogical endings filled

with 9ths and 11ths and fading to silence.

Barry G. Wick

a poem written circa 1992 or 1993