June Snow
Living in perspective, lines never meet.
It is such a contrast, the wall, not the wall,
the description on the wall beside
the work of art at the gallery—a pimple
on a perfect nose. I used to burn holes
in a styrofoam cup. One I just finished
drinking warm mock chicken soup out of,
then every few seconds take a big haul
off that smoke—du Maurie King Size,
the one I burnt the holes with. I did this
in a public place at a time when people
where friendly and a loose brush stroke
was not accompanied with a perfect
description as a reminder of beauty.
When it is all over and given a choice
I would come back as a cottonwood
and fall in love all over again.
About the Creator
Gerry Thibeault
aspiring poet working on his first chapbook of poetry...
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Comments (1)
Styrofoam cups always make me think of coffee. Also, I'm curious. Since it was mock chicken soup, are you a vegetarian? Loved your poem@