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Bad Poetry

I crouched under the sun
Sat back low in the long grass
Got slowly covered in layer after layer of dirt
sifting gently over my skin
like curtains in a lazy breeze

Today I sit in my ergonomic foam chair
Being bathed in fluorescent light
Straining for a glimpse of blue sky through the office across the hall

I weeded a bed of oregano and thyme
“How will I know if I’m pulling the right thing?” I asked
then spent the next hour
rolling leaves between the pads of my fingers
and smelling my fingertips
marveling at my toolbox body
good for so many things

Today I collate report after report
And the only thing the pages smell like under my fingers
Is toner

The biggest hornet I’ve ever seen
flew in drunk circles
like a helicopter going down
Furry spiders
ran for the folds in the fabric
of the ground tarp I was rolling up
A praying mantis
acted like a twig
until the cricket got close enough

And all of us city kids ooh-ed and ahh-ed
Because we knew that Today
All that would be left
is the ache in the deep-backs of my legs
And the grit
way up under my fingernails
that I didn’t scrub hard enough to get out
maybe on purpose.
Got the pic here.


Greg Johnston said...

No such thing as bad poetry. It is yours to share or not and sharing is a great thing. Thanks for sharing.

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