David Olsen

Monopoly, a Game

 

He blusters and plays rough.

He’s a player, rolls the dice,

has hotels all over the place,

but never, ever, has enough.

 

He breaks all the rules,

scams his workers, hopes

everyone discounts his gropes,

and plays us all for fools.

 

He’ll politely say Pardon me

at the end of play,

then take a Chance and beg

to get out of jail free.

 

© David Olsen

Intimate Mars

 

This ruddy face is pocked

with faint evidence

of volcanic eruptions in youth.

 

Scars appear as craters and bumps.

Straight or curving creases

and crevices cross vast plains

between curious ridges.

 

Frequent contact with water

is evident, yet the surface

is arid, becoming ever drier.

 

I know this place intimately,

yet my tours are so routine

I no longer notice its features.

I visit daily, razor in hand.

 

© David Olsen

Horse Guards Parade

Westminster

 

That girl observes me with respect,

more inclined to stroke than poke,

but that boy, with freckled smirk

and sly mischievous eye, bears

watching. He might be trouble.

 

I’m allowed to blink, but must

stand with patient, noble dignity,

as if composed of marble or bronze

gleaming like the silver blaze

on my rider’s red tunic.

 

Fidgeting police browns

nearby are common;

they lack my regal tack

and stately stillness.

Black is beautiful.

© David Olsen

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