PO' writing

Three Days

Sunday weeps through soggy gray tissues

Into a basin of Don’t. Flooded with failed

Promise, it spills across the fallow garden

Where Love sprouted, but refused to bloom.

Wednesday sighs nakedly from atop the sunken

Mattress of Can’t, where she goes through

The motions of rumpled and twisted covers.

Love builds but finds no release in her arms.

Friday’s flirtations are pregnant with a promise

Of Won’t.  As is her wont, she plies her puns

And innuendos into receptive ears.  Love stays

Buried, knowing it will sprout next Sunday.

My poem, Slice of Life, published Feb. 2009 in the Raintown Review.  Read by yours truly.

In celebration of Irish Wristwatch Awareness Week, and my own Irishness, I present a reading of W.B. Yeats’ The Second Coming, by yours truly.