The Calling

Appears like a haunted house birthday cake,
Lights and motion in the buttercream. Becomes
A definitive longboarding whoosh through the darkness.
A measure of loneliness, sometimes, whose measures
Eye the exits, clutch cold glasses at the end of the bar.
An army officer pays for a beer, then hands me a deck of cards,
Says welcome to the field of suspects. Selflessness creeps people out.
But really it isn’t a sacrifice, more a scratching post for the brain.
Shred pedigree, honor, and rescue. Enter sunshine
In a shuttered lab, gasoline rainbows in the basin.
Think powdered moon rock, pure power through joy.
Or no – so hard to get this right. More like
Plucking bright letters from a gamer’s keyboard
And tossing them back to the trees.