A Poem Can Be About Anything
What shall I share today of me;
the shades that sleep under my tree?
The wild dogs of the night who drool,
or getting an A while yet in school?
Poems mirror the mind, you know.
What’re the parts we’re willing to show?
Blood from a refugee’s eyeball
pooling on the floor at the mall?
Or perchance Paul, my sixth grade crush
forgot later in life’s mad rush;
the spear point found atop the soil
speaking loud as any gargoyle.
The soft fur of Gracie, my love
who looks after me from above;
we oft don’t speak full truth in here,
hoping instead to spread good cheer,
leaving old timbers to shake–
from an underground earthquake,
echoing the ocean’s great roar
contained yet by the shore.
Careful not to rip the bridal veil,
crawling along the moth-eaten trail
we sing out long our private song
which from Darwin’s book we took.