Sidewalk puddles
Of the city, the rumor of birds
On the ears of steel rails.
In spring, the robins are first,
In the yards, in the lots,
Even before the worms.
I write
Little poems
Open to interpretation.
Taxi cabs are wisdom.
So are basketball hoops
Screwed to the garage.
And in our glass lives
The outlines
Of light and the sea.
naïve haircuts 
The crows,
a murder most fowl,
gather outside
my bedroom window
eating the forbidden fruit
of a Seven-Eleven dumpster,
Oh thank heaven,
all year round.
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Awesome! Thanks Buffalo Soldier. I think this poem fits well in our rust belt city ethos.
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Been itching for a new poem here. You’re such a strong finisher. I had a teacher once say that the 3 most important parts of a poem are the title, first line, and last line.
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Thanks, Andy. I appreciate the comment. And I agree with your teacher. Hopefully that good advice rubs off on me. Now to put Weakerthans and Samiam on my Pandora!
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I always look forward to reading your poetry. Such a pleasure.
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Thanks Used Life, that’s very kind of you.
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