I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Bad Tea

Too much water:

Old sandbox--
the castle's kingdom
spread thin.

A cup of bathwater beside
a neat, unopened bag:

Smoking by the pool--
the geese take over
the water.

Steeped too long:

The lonely man prays
until the single women
have all gone home.

Bad water:

Through the smog,
a rippling orange
sunset.

1 comment:

Pat Paulk said...

Sounds like hope in the end. Excellent poem!