The Rush Hour Dragon winds its way

through stripes of colour in the rain.

It’s smoky breath clouds the air.

It’s snarling voice strikes fear in all.

 

Gray people stand in dripping hats.

Legs splashed by drops the dragon flings

or wait beneath their black toad stools

that mushroom as the deluge falls.

 

With gnashing teeth, with blazing eyes

and blasts of sound that rip the ear

or shrieks that make the muscles flinch,

the scaly monster vents it’s spleen.

 

But soon the red glow of its tail

retreats through dark and empty streets.

Back to it’s lair it quietly slinks

to wait the breaking of the dawn.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, Fall, 1987