Thursday, December 12, 2013


A desert. The surface of my desk. A pancake.
A plate. A sheet of paper. A wall.
Chile con carne sin chiles.
Wonder Bread.
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
rushing water
a beating heart
bee’s wings
a candle flame
a tear

a laugh.

This wee poem was the outcome of a Tuesday Word Prompt in my writing group, the Santiago Writers.
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