— Barbara Saxton
Here’s to all poems
that never get written! Bullets
artlessly dodged, quivered arrows
un-lodged in my targeted soul,
pock-marked past recognition
by lyrical scrimmages.
Here’s to prancing in place
on my calloused numb hooves,
past Sylvia’s warm still-seductive gas oven,
loitering in safe harbors, as I curse fools
booking passage on Arthur’s
Here’s to bland summer days
spent averting my gaze
from despair’s wriggling bait,
pen-gun fully charged
with metaphorical blanks.
If you need me, I’m home,
pinning sunflower swags to the windows
of life’s transparent aquarium.
Curtains that block out blank stares
of those silver sardines,
whose swift dartings belie
neither purpose nor wit.
Here’s to years, decades, centuries
of limited output, freeing up time
to smugly admire my bare walls
stained with Congenial Cream
and Swiss Coffee accents, and ignore
the scuffed baseboards of tired, messy memories.
Here’s to hand-written notes
to Foothill Disposal, demanding
immediate pick-up of my excess