Porch time, northeast, not a thunderhead,
But a head rises, see that warm column of air
Ascending white from the humid summer green,
High to heights above the dewpoint
I said it was a head,
Atop the cloud it teases out from the part,
Combing out below the impermeable ceiling
Of a stratified summer atmosphere
Did I say a head?
More now a whales tail, fluking the skies,
Which if pursued, Quequeg’s harpoon would fly straight through,
No Pequod on the bluffs
I think I do see a head,
Now become, is that Don Martin’s Old Fonebone?
Cartoonish doctor of my pre-teen youth?
I read way too much Mad Magazine back then
It is a head,
Shirt collar and face have formed below,
And it’s Larry Fine! Orange hair now white in parted triangles,
A one Stooge Rushmore in the sky
No Moe or Curley standing by?
Only their old fans would ask why,
I’m told this happens all the time,
Old jokes and Heaven seldom rhyme
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