Poem of the Week

Long enough since the genre was popular

we've forgotten what to call it: weird mix of quotes and collectibles, private

thoughts and uncensored meditations in brief, like locks of hair and

child height charts of your considerations

and ponderings. An abandoned art, you practise it with care: each quote

equal to the other, simple entries like coordinates of unmarked

appearances

in the sky - twenty years, over

8,000 days - the weather is "what you make of sunshine," and only

women "can

make a man successful," haven't you heard

"God is the messenger, and we are all brothers and sisters," organizations

of hate "must be fought with the ultimate crest: humanity," and you

note a quote with a love reserved

for precision and the unattained, and I

suspend like cracked meteors in the ether

of your common message: go to bed, what is truly important in this world

has already been said.

"When people deserve love the least

is when the need it the most," we are the axis

of cliche, "like mother like daughter," sign your name

on this one before I turn out the light

and resume my interrupted prayer.