This is a stolen poem.

It is ripped
from the headlines,
from the breeze. It flees
the scene every time some
-one says boo.

It has burgled its iambic
feet and too-used shoes
from a girl on the corner
who has lost her song.

It has waited in line too
long for soup. For
sanity. For some semblance
of   s t a b i l i t y,
and silence.

This is an embezzlement
of the long and un
-starred night, the fight
against the fear, the
near-miss mayhem.

This poem has helped
itself to the moon
in giant vanilla bean
ice cream scoops,
swallowed her whole
and holy. Rolled her
on tumbled tongue
and won her over
(and over
and over again.)

This poem has sung a
heisted hum,
stumbled through
the hymns and genuflected
worth saving.

Give it some room
……………(the sky),
or it’ll swipe you dry
of all things open,
free. See?

There it goes,



In April, we poem. At Poetic Asides

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2 Responses to Shocklifting

  1. qbit says:

    It has burgled its iambic
    feet – awesome.

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