Michael Catherwood

     

     

    Confessional Poetry Man

     

    Here you are again

    armed with yourself,

    floppy hat, Cross pen,

    watermark bond,

    going out into the great day

    ignoring the dark clouds.

     

    With each step,

    a wondrous thing

    you think, you move

    against the ignorant children

    shouting on their way to school.

     

    You notice the leaves.

    You notice the birds.

    You notice Whitman’s beard

    in the puddle at your feet.

     

    Just think, all the puddles

    fill with your portraits,

    windows with your dramatic grin.

    Your wings melt

    when you stare at the breaking clouds.

     

     

     

     

    Come with Us

     

    The darkness flees

    through the holes of evening

    as we walk the avenues

    dusted by streetlights.

     

    The sleet begins

    and pings on the streets—

    our numerous countenances

    bring long stares.

     

    We do not

    own the dark

    night nor follow

    the moon’s

    burning path.

    We own our breath

    and walk in circles—

    everything round

    and continuous.

     

    We continually

    meet ourselves

    while the banks

    and courthouses

    dim and look

    sternly away.

     

     

     

     

 

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