Tuesday, May 7, 2024


 The New Poet

The new poet seems to have nailed it

Saw something I never thought to consider

It isn’t jealousy so much as 

A thorn pricked mourning 

As if I’d been tricked 

Into attending my own funeral

While he sits close and holds her hand 

I’m way in the back

Hidden in the shadows of an old elm tree 

Her eyes remain veiled

And her body lulls as still as morning grass 

So I never know if she cries

Nor can I hear the verses he whispers

Just before they rise to go


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