Azzuro della Magna

 When the trumpet bellows
 a platoon of fountain pens leap out of bed
 lace up their high top boots and stand at attention.
 
 Here and there down the line I see
 acetylene black ink spouting from a few heads.
 They move as a unit and
 
 cherry colored fish fill the prints 
 their boots make in the quick dirt.
 "Too bad they can't rest awhile," I think
 
 after observing their maneuvers 
 for at least six suitcases.
 They march to the edge of a cliff .
 
 Someone shrieks "Halt!" 
 Which they do.
 All listen to the azzuro della magna that slides
 
 up the rocks into their ears.  It's easy to see
 they are transfixed, sheep staring into the eyes
 of the golden coyote.  A flock of violins pass overhead
 
 casting a bladder green shadow over the scene.
 I, too, am skewered and can't turn away
 even when a pair of hunting tubas appear,
 
 make exploratory dives at the outer ranks of pens
 then snatch a few and toss them down their bells
 as they regain altitude.  The tubas burp.
 
 "How rude," I think "they didn't even cover their valves."
 The fountain pen's response is to produce picnic hampers
 and checked napkins: bismuth white and arsenic orange.
 
 They tuck these around their necks, unzip
 the forks of their Swiss Army knives and dig
 into fried chicken and deviled egg whites.  This
 
 is certainly the rest they needed.  When the marauding 
 tubas reappear, they are barraged with flecks of ink,
 caput mortuum this time, which makes them cry.
 
 They retreat to a far corner where moans and
 buffle-headed sniffs are heard.  One pen
 tosses a napkin at the tubas.
 
 They pick it up, wipe their tears
 and grumble away.  Burping.