My mind self muddles:
back shadow,
bone broth blanket,
knee braces made of feathers
with a metal file on her head.
No, gargoyles are not real.
Everybody wants to learn to knit socks.
They call me Quintessential Tommy,
Malcolm Muggleridge,
a calamity of errors.
How many bugs are there?
How needless on all the trees?
Nobody likes hitting whales.
Strangers will sneeze on you.
He quibbles about monikers.
He can’t swallow, either. And when he swallows, birds get in.
by Ron Reed
