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Sitting at the piano
Scuffed up keys
Scarred dreams
Writing a Writtle
In the middle of
flutes & fiddles
Dipped bits of toast
In a little spilt yolk
Giving the hot tea
a poke in hopes
It’s not too hot
To sip and not
Burn my tongue
Curtains drawn
Sun turned on
even racoons
Couldn't steal
a dropped
Crumb Of joy
From the room
Tossed withered
Watered bloom
The ghettos
indeed more
than a tomb
taking this
Still moment
close & seal
flights aboard
Crescent Moons
Whence night
Snores,
Streets
do talk
say less
write more
