Here on the kitchen table:
A cake platter and Nescafé coffee
In a glass mug,
A notebook that opens backwards,
Filled with black ink mandalas,
Smudges from sweaty palms,
A pile of papers,
The victim of a pigeon's target practice.
"It used to be funny when people got pooped on," he said to me,
"Now it's just normal."
Every April, I still attempt writing a poem every day for National Poetry Month because of you. Every April, I think of you and hope you're doing well. Every April, my words are forcibly extracted or falling in clusters or dripping ponderously.
ReplyDeleteThank you.