Polly

End of the day. A bar where you ought to leave a tip. The green bird was saying pretty pretty pretty, loved ones were walking home across the city. I waved at the girl who waves her whip    ... but please be certain I’m a citizen    ... I take stuff to the dump    ...    or maybe it’s the tip? I’m where the nitty really meets the gritty. I know I find it hard to listen. I read too much. I often need a drink. It isn’t the world that makes us think, it’s words that we can’t come up with. Sure, I can work up fresh examples and send them off to the committee. But the poetry is in the bird. And in the pretty.