Photo Op

Hey, I saw your photo in the paper,
a grainy black and white, a photo
fit to print in my humble opinion.
Politics, crime, local news, The
Vindicator a potpourri of info,
good and bad--obits, sports,
Heloise, when the planets
rise and set. 

Yet with all that, I saw your
face, a face I recognized at once,
in the paper delivered daily to my front
stoop.  I never dreamed you would be so
imaged by tiny black dots of differing shades,
and little did I realize it would smack me
‘cross the puss, prompting me to utter
an, “I’ll be darn,” as dreams, still
fresh, hung like rags on the edge
of gray matter, and as coffee
vapors wafted freely from
a bulldog mug.

But from what I saw, you did not
mug at all for photo op.


22 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
2-2-16