’til it’s over there.
So hand it to a friend
or fiend or your worst
enemy or the girl next
door or the guy down
the street.
This poem still has
lots to say, to sway,
to make hay while
that golden stun still
shines.
She hasn’t got an end
-ing, see? Just a pocket
full of rhythm, glee and
stardust. The last crust
from her pb&j.
Make of her a paper
airplane, a simon says,
yes or no. Fold her at
center, and center her
slow.
Origami her a happy
ever after. Some laughter.
An iambic tale, a fairy
wing. Sing her some
-thing low.
Hand her a flour-leafed
clover. Red rover her a
somebody to tug. Say
-onara her a hug and
send it high.
Shrug her shoulders,
ink her skin. Beg
-in with a hearty hell
-oh,and wave her page
goodbye.
..
In November, we poemed. And now we are done.
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