Missed that ninth artery Sunday
Caught up in thought
Reflecting on the crooked tower
Seemed though it might bend over
and tip its receptor like a
gentleman's top hat in greeting
Surely it was a passing flight
torrid breath of the storm
leaving that pole acute
A meek and tall chimney sweep's
instrument remains erect
by the occasional road
The road taken that passed
the ninth artery Sunday
without ever knowing
Red went for nothing
Boxed circle meant nothing
Nor should it have when
there was no obstruction
no interference out of thought
Pulse jumped from the glance
in the mirror, reflection of the warning
Grin, puff of air soon followed
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