Perhaps when I throw up
it’s when I’m with you
haphazardly birthing baby
dreams across the cosmos
Perhaps when I’m with me
noting flies speaking lies
as the autumn season mauls
. . . one perfectly placed
coffin (or coffee?)
I caught a whiff of old books
at a red light and how strange
the road is a book-spine without
words or covers
And someone asked, “would
you hit a woman with a baby?”
No, I’d hit her with a brick
is the e.e. cummings answer.
:: 10262015 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 