Five tiny stories in poem pockets


Nothing bitter. No coffee, no cold
-heart stare, no chairs without
comfort. No root. No soot.

Nothing batter. No waffles. No pan
-cakes, no average. No pitch
black night with softball stars.

Nothing bit her. Not the love bug
or the mosquito moon or the
quiet cold. Nor the sun.

Nothing bets her. No double-down,
no quiet frown poker-faced goon.
No flush. No hush.

Nothing better. Than the way the
sea rushes against the shore; fills
her, stills her soul.


Prompted by Poetic Asides


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