-not french roast-
now it's columbian blends
with my freedom toast; then I recall
that Juan sells more than beans-
futility smells like coffee.
I spread my toast
while I watch CNN,
or the local news-MSNBC if it's LIVE-
everyone accounts a common story
with alternate takes on the end.
Inbetween bites, over sips I learn
the world has turned
orange as I slept;
lines have been dug in sand,
last cards dealt in dead-men's hands-
unconcious notes on my sports page
make me wonder who will be left to read
the memoirs of a post-humous poet.
1 comment:
This poem really makes me feel like I know you. I like how it takes common acts and makes them poetic.
I wanted to mention that I love the way you phrased your Intrests on your profile page.
Bye for now,
Sara
Let me know if you want to exchange links with poets who blog. If not, thanks for stopping by.
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