be a verb, you said—
wedging into a far back booth
bracelets clatter beside
a thick white mug
laptop clings stuck
against wood grain
sugar packets line up
salt and pepper wait
creamer cups pool
dusty red lamps glow
ketchup scent hangs heavy
listen so the roots
can hear
spoon hits side of glass
*47/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day.
Listen so the bones and roots and night can hear.
Sometimes I’m a bit scared at what I might hear.
That might be what you need to hear.
Very nice.
Thank you!
needs more, but I really empathize with your plight! This is one to come back to.
This one started as an answer to one of Neil’s poems, and I might work it more and include it in the book. I think there’s some seeds here that can be grown, for sure.
The spoon hitting the side of the glass: does it break the trance or begin it? Someone, surely, is out there.
Great question, maybe it’s both? A circle. I do think many of my old loves who’ve left this word are still around me.
I love it, a moment snagged
So glad you like it. Thank you!
A great ambiance poem. I like it
Thanks! I’m falling behind reading your poems, but I hope to get caught up this weekend.