Roberta cried simple tears,
simple luminous globules
not running, but sauntering
down three cheek weeks.
She tried to stop simplicity,
stop it dead in its tracks,
but it ended up dead fettered,
dead completely unwound,
a simple lost tune on the air.
Roberta spelled her last breath,
spelled it into a three word tear
that wasn’t quite what she thought,
but it was good enough.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Poem-A-Day: Day 392
Roberta
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.