green shorts/ tin roof
It’s your lucky day: TWO poems.
This may be a bad idea if I can’t write one tomorrow.
Green shorts stuffed in drawers
too many, homes and houses. And bracelets found
in dirt, glittered and ironic: beautiful and trash.
Are moments just that, made up in minds? An image constructed by thoughts
hours and hours of years ago? And if I keep my
headphones on, will I not
shield sounds, but remove them from the world?
We all create reality, using free-will to craft any piece
of fine jewelry, sew any pair
of green shorts, only for them to become
a secret code for what was never
And what are you so afraid of,
wearing sunglasses on a dark morning,
on a dark subway?
Tap, tip tap, over
and over in 3:4 time,
rain conducted by clouds,
it’s not as loud as it seems.
Tap, tip tap on the tin roof,
and I’m not afraid of thunder this time.
I lay and listen to the orchestra in the woods—
there is no time for sleep in the middle of the night.
Tap, tip tap above my bed,
the gods as playful as any person
lucky enough to be here.