i am the mouse Billy Collins let loose in a poem,
trying to find my way out; at least, it's a chore.

the words line-up and chase all the whiteness,
'til finally she gives out, rests; letters whiz,
by making silent waves of devoured words; and
bunches-up making long or short sentences.

periods placed willy nilly if he's four.
life is a comma, and saturdays: a semi-colon.
you listen with elephant ears, to their steps ;
shake the hand of a midnight, safely tucked.

each day's twenty-four are fecund with worries;
as grins cost more from inflation of the heart.
i see a horizon stretching for a sparrow's birth,
fingertapping on the wide shoulders of the Sierras,
for permission, for protection, for a family.

sometimes the teller is 10; you gotta listen.
oft times she's five; listen harder, softer.
your words would be eulogies to life"s ennui;
the drummer boy of heart's beats, you'd be.

silent; surrounded by kids. a man thinks. grins. loves.

05/22/2010

Posted on 05/22/2010
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