Until recently my poetry repertoire was pretty much limited to that one about the guy from Nantucket. Then I started going to this poetry group thing at the public library.
I’ve written a few. It’s fun. Now I’m not claiming to be some great poet or anything.
Still, those effers at The New Yorker could have at least sent me a nice rejection letter. Don’t ya think? I mean, it’s just common decency, right?
Whatever. I’m over it.
The Most Beautiful Thing
Like a Monet’
Bursting with color
No strings attached
Protective, like a pistol in the glove box
Familiar, like an old book store
Rain boots, when you need them
A cutting board scarred with nourishment
Coffee brewing just before the alarm
A twenty found in an old coat pocket
The last bite of a hot fudge sundae
Christmas lights in a hometown bar
An Oldsmobile with a full tank
Breath taking fun
Like wrestling a pile of puppies
Hot shower, clean sheets
Teacher in your corner
Gangster in your back pocket
A kind audience when you forget the lines
Just as a tree that falls in the forest
I’m here to tell you
It makes a sound
The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen