I am a poem.
A poem that says it needs to be famous,
but busies itself with mundane work.
A poem that sometimes acts as if it were on stage,
but usually cowers in the bedroom closet.
A poem that defies gravity like a trapeze artist swinging
through space, only to find no place to land.
A poem that wants to attend the School of Extraordinary Feats,
but after graduating would not know how to apply what
it has learned to ordinary life.
Who would read a poem like that?
More The Whirligig #319
More Writers’ Pantry #71 at Poets and Storytellers United
A gloomy winter day,
a day for looking forward
to the promise of spring
(yes, even stones)
begins to soften
and flowers give off
an achingly wonderful fragrance.
She can smell them already—
grape hyacinths, daffodils and tulips—
or is that the dish detergent?
Suddenly a cargo truck roars by
in the street outside her window,
jolting her out of her reverie.
“How easy to act the fool,”
she murmurs to her cat,
then scrubs the crust
from her only plate.