• arthurjerrythompson 22w

    Napoleon, “The Count,” County Sheriff

    Rowing the wooden,
    Green boat,
    Paddling, rather,
    Was a tanned, Cajun
    County sheriff named
    Napoleon, “The Count.”

    He had unwashed
    Black hair,

    Greasy and full;

    Thin in
    Height, but
    Thick individually, like
    Wire –

    Metal wire –
    Barbed wire.

    There’s a long
    Branch, in the
    Water: it might be
    A whole tree, near
    The shore, but
    You can’t see
    Where
    It goes into the
    Ground –

    Then it bows back,
    Into the water –
    Making an arch.

    There’s about a
    Foot, at its
    Climax,

    Between it and the water.

    It looks
    Old and past it’s
    Dry, but
    I’m really too far
    Away to say.

    It appears to have
    Branches that dismerge
    Themselves from that Lake;
    Those thin
    Twigs of
    Bark seem to come up and boast
    Green lively leaves.

    They seem to come
    Up and say, “Napoleon, we
    Roamed this
    Bank, in
    The years of your
    Birth, before, maybe
    So remember me, when

    You sail by,

    In that boat of
    Green,
    Which does not compare.”

    Napoleon “the Count,”
    The county sheriff, cherishes
    That green leaf, but can’t
    Bear to remember such
    Honesty.

    He can’t muster the will of the
    Western shore, Napoleon
    Knows the sand and
    Its gore – can’t wish to reminisce in
    That life that is
    His.

    The crimson roses,
    With petals –
    They’re not even
    Roses –
    So red; they slowly slide
    Down the plant’s petals into
    Pink,
    Then are cut off by
    The green, that comes
    Up from
    The stem, starting at the

    Roots, presumably.

    But they’re covered,
    Smothered, and crushed
    In dirt,

    So they probably
    Aren’t so lively
    And green.

    Napoleon’s ship,
    Called, “Revenge: Phillipe,”
    Hits a branch,
    Standing out of the
    Shallow center of the
    Pond, and he
    Flips

    On his face and
    He bleeds from the gashes from the
    Splinters; lodged a post in
    His hand,
    One day,
    Though,

    His redundancy,

    He will understand.


    ©arthurjerrythompson