missive, anyone?

the poem I wrote last night

is 10 times worse

than the one I wrote the night before,

unless I’m thinking about

two completely different poems which I might’ve

written on two different nights altogether now.

that's funny.

I wasn’t thinking about the Beatles here.

maybe they crept into my atmosphere

when I wasn’t looking.

I’ve never hummed a song I didn’t know

but have hummed a song I didn’t like.

well, maybe I liked it a little and didn’t realize.

it’s possible an old flame sang it to me

after the bar closed and if so, I’ll love it until I croak.

(reflecting on my time at “Mr. Flood’s Party” Ann Arbor

back when it meant something larger than one’s self.

I'm referring to the saloon, not the E. A. Robinson poem.)

this entire experience hasn't been easy.

on the other hand, I think it has.