Sodden ground swampy
a mash of leaves, plants, flowers
once distinct, now soup.
January thaw
4
Sodden ground swampy
a mash of leaves, plants, flowers
once distinct, now soup.
Domestic mountains
rimmed with grime, sponge scaling this
Everest of suds.
Forgotten summer
umbrella aged by winter’s
wig of heavy snow.
Olive pits. Glass shards.
Bent straw. He warns, It’s not a
garbage disposal…
Once her nest, now a
museum to her old self.
Home is elsewhere.
Looking back I find
this old friend, written record
for the world to view
You still up? Dude, it’s
not like the internet won’t
be there tomorrow.
WordPress stats: twenty-
two-thousand views in ’12. This
despite no new posts.
Where did they go? Wake.
Eat. Work. Pay bills. Each the same.
Days blink by, all gone.
What we hold onto
owns us drowns us sedates us
slow death by shopping.