Saturday, April 12, 2014

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.

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