The FAB&PP Poem of the Month for April 2024
so he thought
maybe
a poem might
come out of
this particular
funk
like the predicted snow
might fall as cold rain
like his
legs
would carry him to
the bus without
bitterness
as if the
critics
(and the premise)
wouldn't matter and the
objects would
penetrate his
eyes and brain
but none of
that
happened
so time
was not
killed but
stretched
and he still
ended
up
late
for lunch