by June Labyzon

My inner queen is out of sorts living on the far east side,
exchanging the green for sidewalk Sundays.
The words foam in my mouth.
Choking with a full mouth fails a poem.
Indistinct chatter is the stuff of poetry.
I hand my dreams over to places,
weathered by the shamans;
numerous little legs running about at top speed.
The pace of milk, blood and meat
rests in white porcelain cups
painted with red and yellow flowers.
The brassy fanfare of a sky of spitting rain
is the festive overture to the short story
that is my life.


Posted on 11/20/2012
Copyright © 2021 June Labyzon

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 09/29/14 at 05:27 PM

I love the idea of ---the pace of milk, blood and milk resting in white porcelain cups.

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