Written to a prompt-list from the very fun Sunday Whirl:
It’s a very small door
and who knows, without
alarm bells we might
never find it. For hours
we make sense of every
single thing the silver flowers
coworkers swimming in
the sharkening light even
the shine of the Model T Ford
careening down the hill
full of girls with enormous
hats frilling in the breeze
carrying bags of chicken thighs
as presents for the king. Talking
cats, pie plates the size of your thumb,
purple opossums, none of it seems
odd until you listen to the bell
and ease your self back to this World
full of objects that make perfect sense
with no help from you.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 