The breeze of summer is like a soft touch on my face.
I think of you in a Porsche Boxter but...
Hey, who Knows???
Candles and horoscopes, Geez, what am I thinking?
Strawberries, guacamole, Jose Cuervo...must be the wisp of your hair brushing my
Breast (?) as I read the New Yorker
and wish I too, could
get a check for a really stupid, maudlin poem.
Then I saw a bird fly
over the horizon
And I had to pay my phone bill.
Calling, calling...Who?
Insanity consumes me...
I still wait for The New Yorker to publish my
poem...
Desperation. I kill a moth on my computer.
Am I not a man?
(Well, let's not go there)
Where's my check?
Huh???
My laundry awaits like moss on a foreign
Stone in a babbling brook.
And I think that I will never see
a poem as lovely as a
Tree.
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Okay, maybe it needs a little work... |
