Sometimes we write in hospital rooms. Here’s my contribution for the month. If you haven’t posted your poem yet, don’t let the time slip by. For those of you who have, forgive me for not commenting yet. I will!
The Last Word
David L. Harrison
Orange-clad my morning news
slaps the drive, sleds wet concrete,
skids half-buried in a spray
of orange-red leaves
beneath my cherry tree.
What I read: During the night,
a train derailed in Maryland.
A clerk was shot in Utah.
The president took a trip.
Not reported: Small white moths,
tricked by balmy weather,
emerged to an early doom,
sought safety (futilely)
around my neighbor’s light.
Tugboats nursed to port a ship-load
of angry waving passengers.
Unnoticed: Festive cherry leaves
relinquished umbilical grips,
drifted in the dark on a slant
toward their destiny
where, scattered like Thanksgiving doilies,
they cover steps a opossum took,
sniffing for woolly worms,
mouse-bits dribbled by owls,
a weed-slug-toadstool salad.
High-backed, nose to the ground,
a raccoon paid scant attention
to the opossum, none to the plight
of Haitians perishing from cholera.
Likewise a buck muzzled the air,
jittery for love regardless of who —
eventually – is elected in Alaska.
It occurs to me, stooping to my news,
the whole story.