a child kept from the font

 wuddit
 wuddit (j)
 (the jars of ills and blessings)

 as if the small red convertible had found its little parking space
 before one of the public vertical brutalist mansions
 parked between the endless repetition
 the small red convertible whose license plate reads so effervescently
 VRGNDKTR (pteradactylorifice) so
 finding its place among the presentile herd of even smaller grey or pale green sedans
 already parked
 outside the row of shops bookended by a bank or shops like
 elsa / coventry / diocletian’s magpie / and martyrs
 the store at which the little red convertible is parked
 to beg for us a discreet patience

 for some not to be in martyrs
 is itself a martyrdom
 for some the media haruspices
 taste like tripe
 eaten in a stew for breakfast
 while sitting in the church basement
 along with the village firemen
 and their families

 this is no au-delà
 no repugnant formula (or formulalessness)
 that the bird is also a bird-handler
 and a lure which might stay
 the emblem of the seal of plenty
 from being anxious or secure
 dead clods of sadness or light squibs of mirth
 there is no dithering phantom of romanticism here
 to stuff the tripe with its own
 dévidoir
 but still
 it is hard to understand the existence of a shop called
 martyrs
 where the only products sold
 are falconry hoods made for humans
 made from the finest kangaroo leather
 and dutifully inscribed with the phrase
 metaxy eleutherōn kai dulōn
 (the vary meaning of the little red convertible)