Whistler’s Brother

  Do you even realize you’re doing it? some say. I say wut? The whistling!  The whistling! They are peeved. Somewhere else, I hear I love it! I say pardon? and get red. I’ll whistle your language whatever it be to pipe you up closer or farther from me.


Cunning, no less

whiskers are self-aware we think they train themselves and have a care and so avoid the sink the sharpest razor surest hand might catch them in the pink but the smarty ones just bend, don’t stand and miss the poet’s ink.


Planters wart

Johnny-come-lately, I plant bulbs stupidly in the cooling earth under powder of snow with a straight spade I dig up cake-flaps of sod I disregard directions and just drop them in, the oniony things. This blasted blizzard. I drop to one knee, hard of breathing, hit by BB’s of ice