my corner is cluttered
with bits and colors
like a spiritual bodega
pressing bohemia hard
into the space between
it gets so crowded
with layers of notes
a boof of hushed tones
no one can see or guess
what’s behind the mess
worse than a meadow
with pressed day-glow parking lines
is a tired disguise ruined
from the inside brewing
maps flutter and fade in the breeze
The Word Rummager 
Leave a comment