poemcholia

at times after i write them
i want to hold them tight then,
not turn my pet mice-like poems loose
out of the sock drawer to scamper, taking flight

snap-like go-now puppies on the run
out on their own rolling
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight

crossing the street
against the light,
a lone drifter may find them and take comfort
some blue dark eerie night

that’s okay, though It’s still not through
cause then, of my poems,
what is left will creep around
eventually, to snuggle up with you

so it’s all okay,
i think
therefore i am okay,
i think