Poetry

Haiku 24

hipshots_030
Photo by Omar Willey.
Licensed CC-BY.

She died this morning
and the rest of us must face
the cold and sunlight.

“The sky is the last
part of the earth,” says the boy
in the orange t-shirt.

Down comes that heavy sign
“Jesus Saves” in white neon
who owns the church now?

At the pit’s bottom,
firelight; imagine
a candled lantern.

Today I am not
the madman, so hearing him
sets “me” to shivers.

“Sleeping Please Don’t Knock”
and we may see her next spring
should she awake at all

Dropless: Water wants
itself for company, worldwide,
pays for no ticket.

All I really want
is to read about Elvis
and why he failed.

The light goes down, ground
freezing-point, wait, more or less…
murmur ah, no more.
(with apologies to Samuel Beckett)

My smile, eyes closed,
might be for your benefit
I’ll keep you guessing.

I saw a pink bra
points up on the wet sidewalk
Thanksgiving Day.

Windstorm upon us
somebody’s cooking liver
one floor below.

Murmur of the rain
just barely drowns out the the drone
of my space heater.

Birds fly, unperturbed
by our many names for them
and their business.