SOME MONDAY POPS

HIGH STREET MARKET

cardboard empire
stacked & packed

coffee loading
fingerless gloves
take a break
to
dig inside money aprons

refolding the float
shaking the shrapnel

in 
the
6 AM refinery glare 

& yell-

POUND FORRA POUND

mildly psycho
at the old 
& 
the supermarket wary

come 
opening 
time



IN HIS OWN WAY

hes fucked come dawn 
nervous
norovirus
again 

he fucks the dawn
in his own way . . . 

then calls the day
to say

hes too tired now

to
come
outside
&
play

in that awful streetside 
gone
sweatbox
gray




SO SCATTERED

what can i write now
that better have said ?

( child
  sat
  on the empty 
  autumn back lawn
  sad
  gaze
  on the empty 
  kitchen window

  he has a toy car
  thats not quite right

  wondering 
  what 11 AM
  is for )

what to write now
in
these
times
so . . . so . . . scattered

( too OUT of touch
  too IN touch
  facetime
  plastic hacked )

what to write now
but
an
ode again
to
the
timeless trees
timeless lessons

rooted but reaching



ODE TO TIMELESS TREES

the springwinter wind
blows
early 
apple
blossom

like spontaneous confetti

over
the
marriage
of
the
birdshit onion grass
&
cracked
rutted
english lawn

from quirkyscienece.com