PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Coulda-woulda-shoulda, sure,

But do you like baseball, Benicio?

Someone spoke the name of Trumbo

But I was as idle as something old.

After all my heavy breathing, and with my scrapes and bones,

They'll find my gun powder, my cannons,

My book on interzone.

Once a place to butcher meat,

A thing you didn't polish, an off key sound.

Puppies behind glass,

My far off sis and me in a lost and found.

Two crazies in a shoebox, Emily dickenson and myself.

As cracked as modern conversation,

Though no longer sad or staring at the ground.

In fact if I could write the smiling

I think I probably would stop writing.

I never would have written a word.

I hope you get stepped on by an elephant then,

Wrote a little British girl.