Meatball

The dragon of the Spaghetti-Bowl Forest
With the ragtop trees, to the northeast of Houston
Where the highways swerve and fly--
Let's call him Meatball, a spicy flame
Hidden among the leaves and trunks, his breath
Inaudible beneath the susurration
Of all the fire-bellied cars. Let's say
Dragons sometimes find a patch of leafy heat,
Warm, bright shadows, and nap.
Meatball has slept three years
Since the waters made a moat around, washed
The city down these highways,
Now, opening one eye to dreams
Receding quiet; Meatball finally wakes up
One restless, cloudy Saturday
Hears the highway groaning,
Cars growling like a row of hungry dragonets
Crying in the nest.
And there's something new
In the forest. A couch beside the road, empty.
One talon pokes at it;
A long slash releases the smell
Of old water, of maybe--people.
There's a couch in the highway wood
With a dragon crouched behind. There are stories
Racing through a fiery nostril
Like cars, like thunderclouds
Lightning in the dragon's neural highways
Where dreams condense like breath.

So this is weirdness and oddness and written while one of the dogs calls for someone to come lay down and keep her company while her arthritis acts up and the clouds clotted from too much heat and a hurricane a state away pile up outside the windows. This particular couch might be perfect for the kinds of the stories that keep all the rest of the swirl and storm quiet, for a moment. Linking with Poets United and The Sunday Muse. 

-- Chrissa