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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