A Letter Away

Poetry is just a letter away
from poverty

It is also a letter away
from pottery

The Fly

I think about the fly landing on my hand.
It’s steel-wool behind, it’s stained-glass wings.
The gang goes ranting around a trash can,
those beautiful names of hideous things.

The flies do
what they are named to
in Goodale Park.
Fish called “Swim”.
His name a command you call to him
he can’t help but obey.

I urge him to relax.
He’s going to have a heart attack
drinking his blood so fast.
Savor it, I urge, make it last.

Why so harried?
What’s your hurry?
Are you worried?
Go be merry.
Cool your fury,
you storm and flurry
or you’ll be sorry.
Focus what’s blurry.
Go and marry
the blood you ferry
to skies starry.
Wings have carried
you through a varied
life unstoried,
too soon buried.
Your ass is furry,
The earth is sturdy;
Have a seat.