Meet us at the Pub today for a bit of stream-of-consciousness poetry. Here are my schizophrenic meanderings:
Look at the pigeon carrying those twigs,
building a nest beneath the eaves.
How she struts—her little head bobbling
like an Egyptian dancer.
So, down the street new neighbors, heh?
Better I hope than the last ones
whose toddler prowled the neighborhood
without her undies
while Mom imbibed.
They didn’t last long.
I only rented once.
That first apartment with the neighbors up above
each night ‘bout 3AM the bloody arguments and curses,
and then the banging headboard (to each his own.)
We need to do some work this year.
Driveway’s cracked and windows
seeping cold in winter.
Not that we’re there for much of it.
That scent pervades the neighborhood.
Is it the broom or lilacs or a bit of both?
I better sweep the deck when I get home.
Will you dang critters hurry up and do your poops?
I hate when people don’t pick up after their dogs.
Look at that! A pile under the Mutt Mitt Station.
Our backyard smells like the chicken shit that
David roto-tilled into the veggie garden.
Can’t wait for those tomatoes.
Such 4 play.