Gillian Swain - #67 - Elevensies for lunch

for Kerri Shying

I confess my hope to springboard

from loaned memories of yours

to write poems

I read the thing you wrote

about the baby’s cry

catch myself marvel at you

nothing of the day escapes

not the grit of concrete

not the wisp of leaves over fruit

not the throttle of hand slap on anger

still your words stay quiet

the strength of them is in the eye

nothing of the day escapes you

say it like it is

we cop it on the chin

or we don’t

and more the poor are we

if we should be the latter