A Saturday Poem: Short Changed


He’d hate to think that he could rhyme

that through his teeth a whistle chimes

that in his mind a picture stirs

of a lit and sugared Douglas fir

that he’d remember trees with sorrow

that he’d want today more than tomorrow

that he really could erase forever

the pencil marks of past endeavors

that anyone could make him feel

the clicking of a three inch heel

that when the day looks so divine

regret sleeps, smiling in his spine

 

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