Not all poems are meant to be epics. As I've gotten older, I've gotten past the need to make every poem "important." Some poems are just meant to be nothing more than brief bursts of verse or slight observations of life around me. Here are three such bursts, all written within the last six months and extracted from my journal.
In the SuperCuts at
Broadway and Berwyn
Shirley the stylist
runs the No. 4 guard
over the foliage
curling uncontrolled
fore and aft on
my head and more
silver sails down
the front of my
gown to the cold
white tile floor
than ever before.
Olivia waits, yellow
eyes knowingly
narrow, clawless
paws tucked under
calico torso on
the warped hardwood
of the darkend
hallway for
opportunity to
pad close enough
for pounching.
The flakes fat and
juicy fly sideways
across Montrose Avenue
and fade as soon
as they drop to
the sidewalk, but
there's no one
there to see it
except for me
the three teenage girls
hopping the Montrose bus
to a mall they don't
know is closed.
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