By Daniel P. Barbare
Cleaning the Office
Making my way lightheartedly and joyfully I’m cleaning the office while writing a poem, harmoniously and ceremoniously with ear, mind, and hands.
Happiness arrives when I’m just plain broke not a penny to spend just lean back with my thoughts.
Peaches at the Market
Soft and ripe the peaches are calling me back, my hands are remembering the scent the delicious ghost of a taste but I don’t let it haunt me, I eat peaches and milk.
What can I do, food like ink, oil that writes, migrants on the page like sweet liberty, that makes the hand strong like America, a pen that clicks like peace, recycling paper that saves the trees and cleans the air we breathe what can I do but carry it in my pocket wherever I go a poem that dreams surly man made that streets like a refillable cartridge.
She always looks up to me. Makes me feel like one of them. Makes me feel like someone with a broom and dust pan in my hand. Says the janitor. She is the director.