The carp rode slowly on the wind
There was no forward, no behind
A gray horizon without hope
To where he left the stevedore’s soap

A fire dome, lit lamppost strung
Whose hat into the world is flung
Far cypress mocks a mossy groan
As daylight fades and turns to stone

Through brick-strewn streets at night adaze
A dream, perhaps, a turn of phrase
For “Jack the cat”, paw-pointed stick
In mule-grass waits the stalking tick

“I swear by days they’ll long be told!”
Shouts Barber Stan out in the cold
I languish low amongst the weeds
To hear the carp’s more prescient needs

There’s nothing much inside this poem
That seeks a literary home
It’s not too hot – nay, not too cool
‘Twas just a poem, an April fool.