Searching for My Next Hat
by Kristina Woodhill
Here it is mid morning, neck just loosened,
Joints all rubbing hard, their flex un-noosed and
Soon now rich iron, rich O-two, rich red,
Will force its pulsing river to my head;
Grit and grime have settled on these lax shores
Where zombies lurk amid skin-trembling snores;
To sleep, to rest, to rise, to birth a thought,
To spy a ghostly jester, glimmers caught;
Yester mixes drinks with chinked to-do lists,
Toasting extra parts, false starts, fondue drips,
Cheesey stretched connections, chocolate dark squares
Covering, recovering this stuffed chair;
Blatherskite becomes my nom de plume. Worse!
Sonnets flee my bonnet, seeking freed verse.