How I Write
Sitting outside,
On a cedar board swing.
Cold beer right beside,
Looking for the “ugly” in the spring.
My mind wanders to and fro,
Looking for a spooky story.
Up top perched a crow,
Looking down at something gory.
Something starts to focus in me,
As my mind paints a Monet.
Light brush strokes I see,
Flying across my cerebral page.
Then my pen starts a flying,
Gliding in a maddened way.
So I make the crow start crying,
And make him eat the gore away.
Then my pen is between my teeth,
And I reach for my thesaurus.
To change an angry to a seethe,
See? I want you to think my vocab ain’t so porous.
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