Solar Panels #2 Poem
The solar panels were completely illegal,
making a rattly sound like a PlaySkool modem
that never made it out of prototype,
an impulsive idea, like making a deal with Kate Bush.
The ladder was equally discredited,
the rungs looking like pick-up sticks,
non-parallel like delinquent universes,
frenemies from another mother.
The breakfast was knock-off as well
and pretended not to notice the coincidences;
you can’t patent shapes, buddy:
geometry is a limited set
with no room to push the rhombus envelope,
with adhesive on par with football smelling salts.
The power outage set all the clocks blinking off kilter.