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Life in Lines

All around me,
poetry is breathing.
Living stanzas.
Do I need CPR?

The pup — switch off,
lingers languidly on
my living room sofa.

Buttery Flutter-Bys
Hop and Bop
In the boughs of a tree,
just outside my window.

And through it
the crisp air
blows a kiss in my direction
leaving goose pimples on my skin.

For the one
who appears in the doorway
leaning against its frame,
why isn't it gander pimples?

We live in complicated
convoluted run on sentences that
have no end in which subject and
predicate are lost

in the adverbs and
adjectives of life, left dangling
by modifiers, hung by
participles, described

infinitesimally, down
to the
by metaphors till we are weary.

A little girl with ringlets
lies on her back in the grass
and tugs at the sleeve
of another's daughter.
Why is the sky blue?
Doesn't that cloud look like a rabbit?
How can an ant carry a crumb bigger than he?"

A smile broaches the woman's face,
She breathes, deeply, a sigh of relief,
As she ponders,
While the crisp air blows its kiss to her,

"Why do I get goose pimples,
But his aren't gander?"
While the pup
Lingers languidly on the living room sofa

And buttery Flutter-Bys
Hop and Bop
In the boughs of a tree
Just outside the window.


© 2006 Glenda Rogers