This poem
is a Thursday
not a Fri-yay
or a weekend whirl.
It curls right into
those, but supposes
it must be the bridge
from hump
to
(Thor’s)
hammer
pose and all those
lost wor(l)ds in between.
It’s seen its share
of lightning and striking
matches and bright sky
sheen, but mostly it’s
just lying
softly, largely unseen,
barely a trace.
(By next Monday we will
no longer remember its name,
if we could ever pronoun(ce)
it in the first place.)
::
In November, we poem.
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