Brooke Wolfe Poet Quatrain

Obscure Jude

I put whipped cream into my coffee
When it does not taste sweet enough
Splenda is off limits here
And I usually can’t get enough

Icicles are dripping just outside my window
Only they’re not made of H2O
And I only imagine the dripping—
Create it with my mind

They’re really made of wire
And tiny bulbs of glass
A plastic plant sways in front 
For want of a better view of the breeze

To be disappointed by un-sight
The wrong sense
Takes her towards west
In the wrong direction

I am not Wallace Stevens, you
Won’t want to read my lines
I am not obscure Jude
I’m obscure in my mind

I am not vulgar, I am not rude
But I will not get married
And I won’t toy with the idea of
Sitting here all day; that’s already been done

I am not his creation
But this mind is no myth
I’ve been plagued in my skin
Since the day of the scythe.

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