|photo by Mark Fowler|
Flo is less Progress-
ive insurance agent or waitress at Mel's diner
than how a poem goes, grows
when you drop allit (mAtch!) or a rhyme in it,
like a mouse casing the house, not just around exteriors
but weaving his way inSide---hiding
behind the couch leg as the cat
strolls by, nails clicking Morse code
'when i find you...
when i find you...'
licking its lips. the mouse may
be little, but won't settle for chee-
sy easy rhymes, he's got teeth to nibble
nerve endings & hip cannons he double-
fist fires into neurons, PoW, pOw, pOW,
laughs from the toes up, at traps,
like redundant, overused metaphors or past tense,
he's passed this, preSent, active all thru
the night, tapping tiny paws on your
subconscious, pAchAngA! paying no
attention to form or scheme,
a free raD!cAL
gone before morning, leaving
vague hints you'll find upon waking,
perhaps halfway through your cereal
in the breakfast nook as lowering your spoon
back into the milk, droPPinGs float to the top
curse the mouse!
that won't leave
you alone, making its nest
in your cranial bone.
Over at dVerse Poets, Anna has us contemplating flow and when things flow and when they don't. Just fooling around with it...having a bit of fun. She'll open the doors at 3 PM EST.