The Bull’s-Eye (poem)

Oil painting of flaming trees

 

 

The Bull’s-Eye

 

They want only the small farmers and the clock punchers

The men who know good fit and sound advice

And the price of the American suit

They want a morning of mail exchange and an afternoon of lunches

The organization man who aims to be a profit to his friends

Consults his wallet-card

Of metric equivalences, state capitals and deadly signs

His necktie warns that he has made a great mistake

The fisted cloud’s eye and the bull’s-eye

The passenger’s grey-tinted daze

Through shatter-proof glass peers a face half-cindered

The heart tendered

A chicken-heart in a pool of calcined fat

But the venturing salvationist

Reads there a state of purity

Anguish indistinguishable from grace

His wife’s ill-fitting dress

Has been reduced

To buttons, a scattering serene as the Pleiades

The seventh sister glimpsed and hidden, meets the searcher’s eye

She winks

Did he see? And does this mean?

The farmer’s wife has sold them all for rhinestones

You may go and try again

Unlock a door that waits to take you in

 

 


The Bull’s-Eye

Virtual cover for poetry collection Mystery PlaysBuy Mystery Plays on Amazon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2016, Stephanie Foster)

 

 

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