Often, places make better poems
Than clumsy words might hope to construct.
An alley runs through the middle of my block,
All lined by wild, and weedy lots
Where cacti and tamarim share the red soil
At night, they're home to crying jackals,
Heat mad cats, and balletic bats
Once, I thought I'd found a gift
A tousle of oleander–
"Rapunzel's hair"
But in the end, it was white hibiscus
A pleasant tea
A promise, dashed.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment