this poem
means nothing.
there is no
hidden meaning,
there is no need
to figure out
who when or why.
no need to strangle
it with your
hands, your
probing eyes.
just as this orange
shirt I wear
means nothing.
I am not
alerting anyone
of danger or
wearing it for
crowd control.
I just put it on
and left the house.
it reminds me
of a time on
a cruise when a man
beside me ordered
another slice
of boston cream pie.
and the waiter,
from another land
asked if he was
from boston, and
the man replied,
rubbing his belly,
no young man,
i'm not from boston.
I am from
cream pie.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment