The old copywriter sees feathers in the park,
assorted colours and sizes,
only while birds last.
He walks his dog, remembering Eliot:
I measure my life / in pooch poo bags.
The wind shifts, he farts freely,
remembering WS Merwin:
unchopping the woodchip paths,
imagining walking treetops
among hawks and wedge-tail eagles.
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
'Mother Waits for Father Late' republished available at
http://www.picaropress.com/
http://www.qlrs.com/poem.asp?id=766
http://frankshome.org/AndrewBurke.html
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