Poetry

Slapdash Soiree (or A Collection of Random Scribbles in One Act)

What do you do
with a funk when
it settles
on you
like funks do
and the world
is a rocket
racing away
It can’t wait
Nope
or so
the little man said
who runs through my head
starting fires
And already
the first heralds
of Fall are
in the trees
Rasping
Scraping
summer
from the earth
in thin layers
while they hope
for a pardon
from Winter’s
Marshal October
who’s just now
rounding around
the mountains
on his way
to town
And all I’ve
never known
and left undone
is buried in
the ground
breathlessly
waiting
the sound
of hooves

Categories: Poetry

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