bagatelle
unfinished moment
screeching brakes without the sound
of bumpers banging.
uncreated
energy leaves the scene
of unaccident.
a bad poet
the tiny stream
says little well
caged crickets chirp
winter fiddles at windows
heart fires contained.
boring sermon
dutiful box elders
think outside.
herons roost
laundry flaps cleanly
on the line
two roads, yellow, whatever
pollen Friday, cat with a saffron
nose stargazes, lily-stained
with fragrance she’s no honey,
but my baby lays down tracks,
yellow brick road paw prints
that slap up against
an emerald city, break its lamps,
showing me there’s no genie.
But at least I get my degree in reality
from Oz, and that has made all
the difference.