I read from obscure poems,
so many written, even the
famous author has never
bothered to memorize.
Once committed to paper,
published in a book, there
they lie, these puzzle pieces
on the page, to be glanced
a few times by the curious
reader’s eyes. These are
simple works about farm,
field, wind and snow,
following in the footsteps
of the poet as he travels
through his day. And here
I sit of a summer’s morning
sipping my first cup of
coffee reading this verse
as I smoke my first cigarette
of the day and listen to jazz
music and the neighbor dog
barking across the way.
I shall not attempt to
memorize these lines and
they likely will not attain
the published stage. So,
all this fuss over nothing.
Why, I wonder to myself,
why even write this un-
interesting piece no one
else is likely to see. Life
is packed with boring,
routine, everyday images
such as these can be found
most everywhere. It’s either
him or me, here or there.
And as I write these lines,
summertime here; I am sure
snow is falling on a mountain
top somewhere.
-30-
Chris Hanch 8-8-2022
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