As Sure as Onions
The poetry will kill me.
I can see it already…
Locked in a room choked with books,
Up in the mountains, a cabin of pine
Parked on the lip of a lake
Painted with evergreen summers.
Eating nothing but opinions
And memories that smoke on paper
Like engines lacking oil.
Drinking nothing but vowels
As stale as year-old cola.
Breathing nothing so fine as rhythm,
Gasping for its velvet touch
As it brushes by as light as air.
Copyright 1992 by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers.