Odd Idea

it had the hard curve    
of a top hat      
the spun fog of Earhart’s      
propellers      
the pits of possibilities      
in a new verse      
it knew it had    
forgotten ancestors      
but resembled      
that woman      
using a metate      
and smelled of Herodotus      
it was  curled like a body      
discovered in a Pompeian stable      
tranformed to pumice      
it played in      
the streets      
was on a bike      
drinking summer      
neat by the glass      
it was an odd idea      
that wouldn’t have come      
any other way