Squall I want to whisper into a bee’s ear about heroes when a megaphone might make more sense by last week’s reckoning, so I pause, balked. Who has a groundhog or almanac for this? It’s too new to be weather. I pine for snow to come bury these random squalls of concern. How ductile are we? I wonder, grinding on senses that haven’t been counted, even the clock that doesn’t tick talks back now. We are bad company, I want me to leave. Levity seems in bad taste yet it’s so badly needed. Everybody knows how to spell awkward now, nobody likes the way it looks. We argue over holes, their size and precise location, ripping maps from a lost world’s questions hoping answers translate. At the ocean, it rains, thinning the salt briefly in spots, here and there, though neither grows jealous, raises a fuss, or even remotely remembers. Tuesday Today's not like last Tuesday or the one before that, which was like the one before it somewhat, which was nothing like any of the Tuesdays that came before it that I can remember, but my Grandmother could've. I wish she was here, alive again but also so she could tell me what kind of Tuesday today is. Plain Spoken I recognize awkward in a poem
which is not ballet to me. I know a real face when I see one and can feel the tremble of a spirit in the midst of despair, unretouched by kohl, whistles in the dark or the tint of roses stolen from those with a job to do. I don’t need to darken the night sky, celebrate a crime or try to cover a grave with a nightingale’s song. Life sometimes loses the melody but I still listen to every note whether I like the tune or not.
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