A poem a day each April, for Katya the Poet's Dew Drop Inn |
In front of my brick-sturdy house, low down, a-ground, a short-tailed mouse sniffs, then scratches sullied spots along the edge of my wee lot where garbage men (twelve minus ten) place gripping, grimy, work-gloved hands on my wide-yawning plastic cans to tip them into hungry trucks where here parade some marbled ducks whose bills are shiny from a pond where men from Europe, o'er, beyond, approach to quench an aching need to mine the land, fulfill a greed A moccasined young Mohawk stops - *a dandelion puffs and pops* Depression-era women weep where ancient wooly mammoths sleep. Since time, we know, does not exist then shouldn't every single where be occupied at every turn and atoms, by the zillions, yearn to move about from place to place? How, then, could a feather drop there? How can, then, a rabbit hop there? How, now, can my staring stop there? Impossible in no more space; without a clock, one cannot race. A cross-eyed frown's upon my face! (For Einstein, such was commonplace). note ▼ |