mind map meander #6

Hunched on the bench out of the domain
of central squares where expensive parties
pretend to turn in but it is only one lull,
so back to the bench’s hunched and single
occupant, stubble twitches like the loafer’s sole
isn’t old as it is and evening rains
pelted wide poplar palms; hesitates

the half-empty pint, like the focus
on the leaky sole opened another valve
and the past crashes as a tide
which containment could be but temporary
and three-fourths of a span is still temporary,
and if balloon clouds existed outside
the ken of cartoonists, a faded white one

might fuzzily form against the otherwise
indigo backdrop and if a nocturnal
critter would happen by and was literate,
might make out what the lips recite too
softly to hear, that it wasn’t supposed to turn
out this way, but then again, maybe this was
the destiny and what was dreamed of is typical.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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