You’d see upon the highway years ago
Serving as an ad hoc wall and warning
Old oil drums guarding worksites, row on row
Crudely painted orange stripes adorning.
Word was, they were provisioned by the Mob.
For this cause, perhaps, or one less drastic
A new, updated model got the job
A drum simulacrum of orange plastic
It retained the features of the barrel,
Public recognition not to squander.
How to call it in a cry of peril?
“Look out for them skeuomorphs up yonder!”
Now we see once more a new mutation:
Like a barber pole, a tower slender
Needs a taxonomic appellation
Perhaps I could tender a contender?
I rummage in my cluttered lexicon
My monkey mind, a whistling dwarf
Wielding his pickaxe, mines chthonic axons
Brings back a diamond: “Skeu-ecto-morph!”
Is there a point to this epiphany?
A private triumph over entropy.
