How did it get to be so late so early?
Of all that doesn’t happen, this does.
Why?
How did it get to be so late so early?
Of all that doesn’t happen, this does.
Why?
Is he warm?
Is he safe?
Is he happy?
Is he free?
It’s like scooping
oil from water hoping
to save the birds
Things I meant to write, remnants of dreams,
notes in my wallet, first lines that actually
made it followed by multiple cross-outs,
new starts on new pages, the opening
now gone as well, all of it collapsing
in thudding rhyme echoing
something I wrote a year ago.
Scratch, delete, rip,
crumple, toss, light
the damn basket on fire!