THE RUNNER I dig the dirt in my garden The farmer and his son Sit in their swept yard Watching I stand and salute They wave Empty gestures signifying nothing I know one of them Shot my cat Don't they know I know? They feign ignorance of cooking and cleaning Buy their breakfast at Betty's Cholesterol City More, much more Separates me from these Sports Than the width of A country road. Lo! Lovely! The Runner flies Over the road Incongruous Fleeting fantasy in Fuchsia leotard Brown hair blown In the wind of Her passage I watch the farmer and his son Follow the vision Eyes filled with fuchsia They don't see My fall flowers Their Pick-up passes Perhaps they hunger for another Hot ham biscuit. ARCHETYPES My hands fit well the handle of an axe. I am skilled with saws. I harvest trees from the forest I am the woodman No mounted knight in shining armor, nor yet even a dark knight, dashing cross country, questing, dispatching dragons, defending damsel - no I am the woodsman. I love the labor of felling a mighty oak, saawing firewood blocks cleanly with the grain I fuel my own bright home fires. I am the woodsman, If you visit me in winter weather, Do warm yourself before my fire. Then, if on leaving you note, among the coats hanging in the hall, one Red riding hood - remember, I am the woodman! CAT TALE Okay! No pussyfooting I'll just say it I like cats! My visitor said "Most men don't" I heard echoes of Lewis Grizzzard, "Real men don't Eat quiche." My visitor went on, "It is because they are So independent. Like women, you Can not control them." Leaving me to wonder Whether most men are Control freaks or just Unlearned lovers. Copyright © 1994 by Forrest Ellis All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form.

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