I’ve got to write a poem
about white hair and
wrinkles wearing glasses
pushing walkers
pulling saggy backs
coming upon one of them
is like approaching an old
sunset I need to touch
and say something juicy
if not flattering
about their most
well-maintained part
anything to get the rise
of a smile or sassy retort
and spank of my arm with
a bent-fingered backhand
why?
I don’t know
perhaps just to
shine a little light
into their age of darkening
yuuuuuuck but when the first ray of sun breaks through everything glistens the first bird song so cheerful and fresh the earth’s fragrance a tea of all it sweetest parts air so crisp and pure it burns
not only do I endlessly scavenge for poetry subjects to scoop up and write about but from another appendage of my brain I’m crafting the same material into skits for Saturday Night Live like dueling t
how comforting the visit of rain on a sleepless night the finger-drumming of drops on the roof of my wakefulness a cold and lonely discourse right above the warm cocoon of my bed and this one speaks t