Breughel’s farmer lays his sword there
on a rock, cracks a whip and steadies
the plough. The horse’s head is down
too, as the inventor’s son falls to earth,
an early UFO, spewing feathers heavy-
ended with beeswax. Just another teen
who won’t listen to reason. His father
forgets to mention the middle path
was something made up, a metaphor,
for traveling between extremes. Meanwhile,
the farmer cuts through a telephone line
aesthetically laid to rest in a shallow grave
so the inventor’s web isn’t in our face.
No one looks up so we don’t see our children
falling, all our tips, advice and words of wisdom
mostly sticky now and useless. The phone’s
dead. Can’t get word in or out.
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