Three clicks right.

Three feels right.

 

A butcher.

A baker.

A candlestick maker.

 

They’ve always come in threes.

 

Men in tubs.

Stooges on the television.

 

Bullies who went for our guts

and bent us over after school

because we three were

three clicks to the right.

 

They keep our meat on salted ice.

The bread is unleavened here.

You don’t want to light that stick, miss.

 

We haven’t rhymed since the nursery.

Our inventory is depleted.

 

We ask for a bowl and receive a colander.

We ask for a pipe and the pouch is empty.

We fiddle, we three,

but you don’t want to know about that.

 

We are unclean. Any vessel

can be used as a basin.

 

We’ve chosen an old coal cart.

We roll downhill. We have no breaks.

 

We poke one another in the eyes.

We slap each other on the top of the head.

We box each other’s ears. This hurts most.

 

We do not say, “Woo woo woo.”

This is a myth. We are quite poetic

even if we don’t recognize your forms.

If you listen, we actually speak in triolet:

 

Yes, we wear timers on our ears.

They are a’ ticking all the day.

Been wearing them for fourteen years.

Yes, we wear timers on our ears

Clicking loud ’nuff to draw our tears.

“It’s very odd,” the people say.

Yes, we wear timers on our ears.

They are a’ ticking all the day.

 

We’re not so sure, but three clicks

feels right, so we turn our timers

dutifully with the sunrise each day.

 

Three clicks, right?

 

Paul W. Hankins (March 2015)