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Poetry By Women

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The Cubs were on the radio, game tied in the fifth. Shiloh lay in late afternoon shade, steadily working a bone. There was a lake breeze, cool and constant. Maybe that’s what excited a squadron of butterflies to strafe me as I sat reading.

Then again, I believe the gods of Old Spice, straight whiskey, and short skirts were so displeased, as to conspire and jointly order those lepidopteron sorties, for I was reading poetry, and, shame of shames, poetry by women.

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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