I have not met you, and yet I feel
the emptiness of your distance.
The recurring remembrance that you are,
and that I can’t hold you.
An ache, that brings me to my pen.
You are now a force of inspiration,
with power to move emotion
by your mere existence,
and a place in my heart.
She refused the proffered gift of a dead bee.
It may have been indeed, propinquity.
He left the sugared drink, in favor of tea.
It must have been the bioavailability.
Sometimes writers think they need to cuss.
I think: a simple case of mumsimus.
Her perfect pitch, to the choir was supplemental.
Strange, because she was so occidental.
She showed me how to make her sauerkraut.
What years of fermented dreams were all about.
They taught me all the perils of unbelief.
When I grew up to be good-oh such relief.
The offer of a friendship met deaf ears and cold reception.
To a lesser person, ‘twould result in sure defection.
My scratchy eyes are due to saving daylight;
I tried to sleep more to avoid the strain.
It hasn’t helped and I don’t really look right;
I’ve missed – with grease and coffee – now a stain.
I get this clumsy way when morning’s early;
groping for the coffee in the dark.
Better not to talk, so I’m not surly.
and my tripping on the dog will make him bark.
I think I’ll miss that hour until the autumn,
when we are supposed to get it back.
Up coming day length definitely will help some,
and summer sun will put red eyes on track.
I don’t get noticed, ordinarily.
Not because those with me cannot see,
But more because I’m fabulously average.
That unremarkableness is my leverage.
I do not have a following or crowd
and typically I’m just not very loud.
To be a leader isn’t what I need-
don’t really want that job, I must concede.
By definition – neither big nor little;
Average is just right there in the middle.
I’m fairly happy in my quiet place
where there’s no challenge to my poker face.
And I can think my quiet, average thoughts
and be my average self, near my flower pots.