Surfing the tables, burning A pocketful of puff, Rough, off the cuff, And curling, the table turning. Rolling in dough, for show, Encrusting the rings, Every day’s things On the street-worn skid-row. And there’s beef and a fat reef, The wisps caressing the lung And lines lined up among The brief relief from the grief….
Day: September 21, 2020
Morning Haiku – 71
The sky, clear and clean, Like a bed with fresh linen, Empty and cold.