Today's poem is by Jo Pitkin
On the smooth glass of oiled wood
where upside down umbrellas shed
their new dying in jet seeds and gold
dust, I swirl and scatter the stilled
life centered here, gather red ragged
scraps, wash and buff the pollinated
tabletop pearly clean with my tongue.
I am no longer optimistically young.
I rise and spread and fan and fade.
Bruised petals splatter like blood.
While wearing tulips' damp pollen
like a saffron-colored reptilian skin,
I blink and squint in day's bright sun.
My owned afternoon is now half gone.
On the other side of a tightly shut door,
I hear like fire's backdraft an unbeaten
green ocean roar, about to overrun
that table, these flowers, my vocation.
Copyright © 2017 Jo Pitkin All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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