Poems

Poems

Listen to me because I am not saying anything.
Every day of your life is a minimum of twenty of these.
Or thirty.
Or more. No less than ten, if you made it from bed
to toilet. And then drove a car.

Or rode a bus.

Or got back in bed.

So quit asking me things. Quit trying to say stuff.
All the time, yammer, yammer. Is the world so quiet
that you must elaborate?

And yet --
when your lapel caves in because your ribs are dust --
someone will be writing words you cannot fathom now.

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