by Cecil Morris
 |
Slow and steady runaway tortoise crosses highway before Portland police rescue —Oregon Public Broadcasting. August 2, 2024 |
This summer’s heat beat his hard shell
like a hammer on an anvil,
and even the dandelions
were discouraged onto wilting,
so he decided he had to go
like OJ in his white Bronco,
slow-mo escape through open gate.
He thought he’d find a place both lush
and cool, the greens still succulent,
the dandelions crisp delight.
He thought Cool Hand Luke shaking it.
He hummed slow tortoise on the run,
felt the sun like cymbals on him,
heard passing cars as electric
guitars. In two days gone, he went
a mile and crossed the 205.
This was his flight, his fancy free,
‘til he was caught. Should we say found?
Now Bowser’s back in the yard,
a new tracker on his arm,
and wishing like all of us
to taste freedom one more time.
like a hammer on an anvil,
and even the dandelions
were discouraged onto wilting,
so he decided he had to go
like OJ in his white Bronco,
slow-mo escape through open gate.
He thought he’d find a place both lush
and cool, the greens still succulent,
the dandelions crisp delight.
He thought Cool Hand Luke shaking it.
He hummed slow tortoise on the run,
felt the sun like cymbals on him,
heard passing cars as electric
guitars. In two days gone, he went
a mile and crossed the 205.
This was his flight, his fancy free,
‘til he was caught. Should we say found?
Now Bowser’s back in the yard,
a new tracker on his arm,
and wishing like all of us
to taste freedom one more time.
Cecil Morris, a retired high school English teacher, has poems appearing or forthcoming in Ekphrastic Review, Hole in the Head Review, The New Verse News, Rust + Moth, Sugar House Review, Willawaw Journal, and elsewhere. He and his patient partner, the mother of their children, divide their year between the cool Oregon coast and California’s relatively dry Central Valley.
