What Are We?
When winter winds have withered stubble,
Mother Mary maddens me,
whispering words of wonder:
what are we?
I find the farm a fraction futile,
loving life in Larame:
take the truck to Tucson, Tina
or Tracy, Tennessee.
Aardvarks are mere armadillos,
such as subtle souls can see:
pecans suck for plumping pillows:
chambermaids are chowder-free.
Santa Clara’s not a state,
a splurge is not a spree:
Grindr Graham isn’t straight:
Superior ain’t no sea.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment