11:56 on a Friday night

Sometimes it’s 11:56 on

a Friday night when you

realize you haven’t

written a poem yet that day.

But--you think to yourself--

I raked all the leaves,

surely that counts

for something poetic.

Leaves, leftover from fall,

long dead and decaying,

enough to fill a trash bag

--and then some--

raked to uncover fresh dirt--

now that’s poetry.

And what about the pizza

I made? The one with

four eggs cracked on top,

baked right into the cheese.

It looked good, until I

tried to cut and serve it.

Then the egg ran all gooey,

the crust stuck to the pan,

and I was left with scrambled,

not sunny side up.

Scrambled, raked,

and only a few minutes late

writing this poem.