20 April 2019


I can write poetry and
do all the time if
only in my head. It
often doesn't make it out.

I can create lines at
the drop of a hat.
Just like that.
But, if you dropped your
hat, I would likely reach
to pick it up for you
and not
waste your time with
poetic ramblings.

That's the thing
                              about idioms.

If you told me, “I
need nine poems from you
by Thursday,”
I'd pick up my pen and
write until Friday, because
I'm not good
                               with deadlines.

But sure, nine poems
or ninety-nine, no

I can write about what is around right now:

          poems titled:

          Trash (or, Plastic Pickup)
          Parked Cars (or, Serenity Standing By)
          City Tree (or, Loneliness) (or, Isolation)
          School Crossing Sign (or, Don't Shoot)
          Lamppost (or, Post, Electric)
          Front Stoop (or, Safe)
          Walton Avenue (or, One Way to Go)
          Construction Barriers (or, Cuidado)
          The Number Four (or, Parking Spot) (or, Subway?)

What depth might be explored?
What humanity illuminated?
What ink arranged?
Meaning conflated?

The trick
                   is getting it out.