a shotgun blast of poetry

poems wing -zing themselves through the air hitting me on the back, in the neck, in the ear I am being pelted by them on a daily basis. The only way to get away is to write them down. They begin to settle when they realize I am honoring them. Thus, I keep a pen handy in restaurants, while waiting for soccer practice, in the doctor’s office. You never know when a good one is going to come full out at you. I blame my freckles on a shotgun blast of poems.