Poets

POETS Desert dust before the rain hampered our walk on the Oregon floor boards creaked with late afternoon lore Dry gin in a glass waiting it wanted to bubble like champagne but there was nothing to babble about A rake for an unworked farm listened for fractals Tesla said he was not available today Ears with a mop of white hair detective with his magnifying glass he thought of making love to a young African maiden she came for the cheese and drinks not the poetry he changed his mind in case she wanted his property too A thick skinned peach arrives nourishing seed sugar salt and cinnamon sticks she was not about to offer anybody lifts To hell with this poetry thing I want to be rich oozed from her brain stem Wooden baton rich gravied marrow gurgled a verse through throttled container One-eyed pond there were mosquitoes to be uncovered or a tadpole or two Maybe the mud was sufficiently thin Such strange creatures, these poets Gingerbread woman hot from the oven offering the sanctity of materiality she appeased our hunger with a jaunty hat What do I think, the ego asked the ego No thoughts arrived What do you think, the ego asked Soul I do not think I feel oceanic passion as the rain mutes the dust beneath the poets’ feet ©GhairoDanielsPoetry2017