Feel free to share this poem (complete and with attribution) to your own blog or in any medium you choose. Art likes to travel.
How September Went Missing
by G.L. Morrison
We are too clever for our own good
too clever for our own good poems.
We have clevered ourselves for days
with unwriting. Unwriting around
pretty ideas and fonts and papers, courting
an oh so pretty, pretty literary devise.
While plainer editors and readers wait at the table,
bib tucked under chin, knife and fork in hand
ready for a bite, a slice of piping, hot poem…
We turn the pages of our clever cookbooks.
We make the most brilliant shopping lists.
But the hour for dinner passes
(this today and the today after that,
they pile up like grocery bills.)
While our goose is cooked
our poems lay raw, unshucked.
Once or twice, a souffle fell…
And a recipe turned out wrong
or needs to marinate longer.
The skillet crackles, hot grease popping,
hungry for a word to grill.
I hope you ate out last month,
dinner has been so late.