Words to my Grandson

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

I set a trap for myself in
the kitchen near a glass bowl
of six brown farm eggs

List-making, anticipation,
Clever cross-pollination of tasks

Must sketch quickly
what flits wing before
blue old-ing eyes, clouded

Notice, catch it all — everything
Except weather, birds, musical

Differentiation, the very trio
which did not touch me today
as yet did every other day

When did it start feeling like unexpected
Loss? A progression of sin to account for

Moth mating-dance traffic near
a fading sun means more waiting
for eventual moon-light rise, near

Bright as hard day at the men’s
Quail hunt. I alone, regardless

Keep clear of sweet entanglement of
father and son byways. Soon we
all retire. Check under the hood

Oiling a conversation which goes
Nowhere. Eventually it runs its course

Submitted: August 31, 2013

© Copyright 2020 Roscoe Lee. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Good poem, I like it

Tue, September 17th, 2013 8:42pm

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