you’re writing poetry on a garden
bench in the summer shade
of an old oak tree among
thousands of nut shells
late afternoon light breeze
noisy squirrels zipping
here there
one curious enough
to sit near your shoulder
with teeth deep into a fat acorn
peers onto your page
then drops his dinner
and runs
leaving you holding
the obvious question
nibbling on it
with both hands
it’s clouds I dislike when my soul is cold and hope must search in their shadows it’s clouds I need to force a houseclean or at least reduce the dust on my library of regrets it’s clouds I browbeat if
if you don’t care about the characters your heart falls asleep? life is no different anyone that tumbles into a well needs only confess regret and plead their deepest need to awaken neighbors who thro
for the raven who blows out his head feathers to attract a sweetie like a black-leathered Fonz he mumbles an off-color pickup line that cocks her head before both spot the ham sandwich on pumpernick