Poetry

A moment 
A beat 
Is gone

I don’t know how you do it Go and go and go

The Sunday scaries 
Is what they call it 
Because of the alliteration

Why aren’t there more poems 
About sunny days

What’s best for me Is not what’s best for you

Subtle are these modern threats 
No blood taken 
Just blood pressure

Hurry, scurry 
Little ant

The past is past and done. 
And so, while history repeats 
Not so with detail specific 
To lend itself to clear prediction