Even with many
arrows on target, mortals
desire comfort.

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Infant child can’t talk,
crawl, play trumpet, make dinner,
write essays, not drool.

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Easy gold medal
for me in spilling food on
shirt, typos, napping.

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Mild winter on pause
as celestial dandruff
smothers the Deep South.

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Taboo treats at the
breakfast table not as nice
as the company.

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Imagination
is a wonderful thing, till
you need to focus.

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The students scribble
rapidly on paper and
pixels. Learn later.

• • •

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Who dat? Who dat? Who
dat say dey gonna write dis
verse? Who dat? Who dat?

• • •

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Every last crumb must
be digested, lest the bak-
er be offended.

• • •

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It’s somewhat like a
real performance, minus the
eyes and time limit.

• • •

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Ignorance becomes
quicksand. Stubbornness becomes
policy. No hope.

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The bones rot away
with each pissy rain cloud, hurt
by frail shingled skin.

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Powdered sugar leaves
a tell-tale trail along the
kitchen countertop.

• • •

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We are headed to
the cliff, unable to veer
away or slow down.

• • •

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Time to bring back the
vapors, fainting spells and the
phrase, “I do declare.”

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