A desert. The surface of my desk. A pancake.
A plate. A sheet of paper. A wall.
Chile con carne sin chiles.
The smell of water in a glass and bean sprouts, too.
Old Monsignor McGarr’s Sunday sermons.
The word flat.
Tender new grass beneath a boot.
The ears of a mad cat.
What I feel when I don’t want to feel,
but great if it’s my tummy or a crepe.
The earth was flat…until it was round.
There is no flat in
a beating heart
a candle flame
This wee poem was the outcome of a Tuesday Word Prompt in my writing group, the Santiago Writers.
See our blog at: http://www.thetuesdayprompt.com/