Benny and his friend Griffin at Ocean Beach in San Francisco.

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Bad Poetry

I work from home now and set my own schedule, which means the moment is ripe for lots of bad poetry. Here are two quickies from this morning.


My son will not kill a bug.
I joyfully squish the nasty insect
swooping down with my shoe
triumphantly celebrating a world
with one less bug.

My son will not kill a bug.
His white tissue is a flag of parley.
He gently swaddles his new friend
and negotiates its release
out the kitchen window.


My neighbor just retired.
This has happened to me before.
My quiet days buried under
buzz saws and motors.
I doubt this neighbor
will rebuild a motorcycle engine
in a San Francisco apartment,
but I hear the desperate activity upstairs,
footfalls of a searching soul
and I tremble
as generations of wives and neighbors
have trembled at the prospect
of a recent retiree.

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