Nothing Special
Squeeze my idle mind for all it's worth,
And this poem drips out (sorry for all the pulp)-
Can you tell it's non-concentrate?
Yet I write because it seems right today.
No one else seems to hear when I ask myself,"How cold were we before?
When we're warmed by a blanket of December ice"
And I still stuggle to speak when no one listens.
A flower blooms saffron and skobeloff
From black and brown,
And I wonder what she's been writing this time.
I can't imagine what else would breathe life into dirt
Besides a pen, gracing some page.
What she does with Caesar's alphabet:
It's Alchemy if I ever saw it,
But I never quite got the gist of Chemistry
Their sublime poetry leans over,
whispers in my poem’s disfigured ear,
“My mommy’s smarter than your daddy!”
And my poetry turns red, arches in shame,
And wonders,
Was God just doing the best he could too?
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