Of

A novel flew by.
Then a play.
Now it’s a poem.
It looks like a piece of paper
with something on it.
My God it’s me!
But I don’t want it to be me.
I want it to be you!
Something we have in common.
A big heart
A little heart
A heart that keeps ticking
through thick and thin
with metaphors that have
nothing to do with trains.
I mean brains.
And there you have it:
a grand mistake.
Why did I start writing in the first place?
So many great ones before me.
But they all missed something:
Me!
Where was I?
In a dark wood.
No.
By the sea?
Perhaps.
Let’s give it a stab:
In a dark wood by the sea.
Now that’s original!
And how do I feel about that?
Flooded with thought.
And so I begin
with lots of onions,
I mean opinions,
airing the whole thing out
with a birdbrain’s view
of