Sensation
Amidst the flaming of the flying saucer’s landing gear,
like as the Sunshine glazing it, in gold-white-yellow sheer,
the meadow edge is filled with crabgrass seedheads by the trail,
the bright, cement-gray road is lit by brilliant blazing rays.
The shadow of the alien is ten-foot long, and more.
The pale Moon is faint and silver, like a lode of ore.
Where is he going, that strange being, unattached and lone,
there walking down the walkway in a black cap with a phone?
Who could he call? Who would he call? Who should he call at once?
What is the nation in the zation he’s a member of?
Bruce Dale Wise is a poet and former English teacher currently residing in Texas.
