My big Norway maple
dropped a limb in the gutter.
Doo-da doo-da.
Keys spin like tops in the wind
and drift beyond the forest margin.
Maples are invasive?!
Who knew? Who knew?
What’s a poem to do?
Should I strew fine rhymes
to the online wind
or shed an emoji tear
for the last flock of waxwings
gleaning berries in the cedars?
My neighbor’s yellow pine
strews pollen in the puddles.
Doo-da doo-da.
What a tsunami of dust!
Pearls before swine. Whine. Whine.
What’s a poem to do?
Try me on for show?
Sorry I’m so smarmy when I grieve.
I believe we should let leaves be.
I flew to Tucson to see how
we’ll flee from what we can’t see.
Who can stay sick with sorrow
so many days in a row?
Boo hoo. A slew of news.
Shoo fly. Screw you.
It happens so slow I don’t have a clue
if I’m really just blowing smoke. Do you?
.
Lance Newman
.