in Poetry

I heel and toe and left and right into
overabundant afternoons of March;
and after the bloom… a longish lunch. With initial lies launched,
as the besotted has been deported back into the decanter.

New Year Fever now token, an alien coin that mints the imperfection,
and the change that felt forever destined, lay scattered
within the couch of that conceit.

And May will spring to show some leg, and spy the why of my ways.
But a parade of Mays
I’ve witnessed,
and no well-turned ankle has healed,
what a bespoke heart may choose to circle.

NaPoWriMo 2018 spring training…

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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