A Calendar Knows How To Chill

in Poetry

a day away from a poem a day and I’m already feeling petulant.
pride of place, I recon, with no reason but a heathen hip hip
hurray to gainsay what passes for Spring; this city of big shoulders

Decades here, notwithstanding, green shoots that appear are but blanks
or sidewalk chalk pastel wishes of young artist I still skyscraper

And I’m stooped now. shrinking. contracting, in the chill of a rebirth
without reason, or a season conducive for doing so.

April in Chicago.

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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