Wordle 197 Race and Rescue


Brenda Warren

I carry your words

Around with me in a tin cup

Filled with coins and sundries

The wedded nocturnes of fortune,

Rattling and rapacious

Against a penitentiary of one.

I calculate the syntax

Of clouds as they spread darkly

From one state to another,

From one host to the next

The sun never quite cognizant

Despite recurrent invitation.

My patron ticks impatiently,

A watch severed at the wrist

A rescue that does not commence

The day of the race is upon us

The prickly hare, the measured tortoise,

The thimble-sized child

With her ceremony of red balloons.

Humility always trumps bravado.

The names that go up lights

Are not always worth mention.

Sometimes heroes are only

Manifestations of a short-lived

Much embellished headline.

Sometimes losers are such

Because they have contested

A much obliged ignorance.