Where Y’d Be

Now - suppose I had both the ability, & sense to 

appreciate when th’ in-play banter’s way off-key: 

trying t’ find amusing repartee in, at best, cryptic 

commentary leaves one perplexed; perhaps it is 

a sign we’ve left th’ garage of common-sense & 

are out on highways whence all their road rules 

evanesce into th’ blue-yonder of pseudo-speak, 

and we fail to address it as linguistic indolence - 

or are merely playing the same hierarchal sense 

of whose word-choice bests that diphthong we 

use as th’ arbiter of which age we fæt, but, then 

pardon me - I’ve neither; so I can’t play - sorry - 

but it doesn’t mean you needn’t read, digest, or 

comment on my poetry - unless it leaves you at 

an impasse of where you’d likely be if it weren’t 

late & dissipated expectance of Schenectady 

© 27 May 2018, I. D. Carswell