Jenny Eats Crow. On a Stick.

I found this in my inbox when I got home today. Note to self: Do not play literary chicken with talented poets.

Dear Jenny,

I usually unkindly judge poets who, after a few pints, jot poems on bar napkins and rush to make them public. Alas, I felt a certain challenge by your entry this morning to dash off an ode to a stick. So, without ado and with the rush of irish ale, here it tis.





wild wind breaks branch
carries all weak things
to new rest against fences
plastic bags paper wrappers stick
this stick finger thick
memory of a hand
a wave in all that’s left
no stones.

Comments are closed.