Desperate for Plump Feathers - July 17, 2024

I look over

at the depressed cushion

of my last five hundred poems

and realize

I’ve got to move my ass

over to plumper feathers 

unslump my ideas 

look for new perspectives

much of poetry is about

hunting the same footprints

in the sand and getting lucky

the tenth time you bend down

and notice that one grain out of place

suddenly  a cold case gives off

a clue that leads to a trail to follow

a hunt into the darkness

I’ve written about the moon

a hundred times but never saw

my face before in its milky mirror

old and pocked by life 

with the hint of a smile

a knowing that there

weren’t many that got away