The Well Runs Dry

Couched in the
concept of a well,
(which supplied the water
for faded glory of "Glen Elm),"

my boyhood abode,
another metaphorical attempt
at writer's block - aid,
here attempting to reference

(former Leiper estate re: early
twentieth century demesne)
across avast tract, which bestrode
approximately a hundred

acres enshrined sanctuary,
(yet whittled down
to about a half dozen acres,
when Boyce Harris made purchase

circa February 28th 1968),
sans plethora paradise
of flora and
fauna once code

did ecologic niche,
now...long since transformed
into ticky tack vinyl city
servicing twenty first

century materialistic cushy
(on tushy) sedentary worker
dog tired to pen a ditty
(butta no mien

mean manual laborer,
neither grubby nor gritty)
propertied class i.e. bourgeoisie),
whence about a century gone by,

where wild woods would still
have been agreeable
to the ghost of Walter Mitty,
or John James Audubon

(born Jean Rabin;
April 26, 1785 – January 27, 1851,
an American ornithologist,
naturalist, and painter),

who would pity
fully unleash torrential
tears, nor witty
countenance supposedly progress

this eighteenth year
since advent of second millennium
bench marked based on
start of common era

at expense, where
countless animals and plants veer
really didst vanish, ah swell
as a pond

attracting Canadian Geese
(they honked in
French), now...there
tis nary a trace

of former Currier
and Ives bucolic
scene, aye swear
not e'en a sparse copse pier

reed (and exclamation
point) argh near
re: zero vestige of vanished
rural expanse mere

lee cookie cutter
(look alike)
family dwellings brave
lee evicting, jack

knifing, and crave
vin lee over
laying pastoral
enclave iniquitous
(courtesy of Neilson, and flave

er flave Gambone
Brothers), rendered grave
bounty viz Anne
Xing Mother Nature's

brethren and cistern did pave
a successful accomplishment
measured by (Ole) standard
in parlance and accorded rave,

ving reviews, asper
a job welled (weld) done,
where only legally tendered
bucks fate didst save!