|Apr/May 2009 Poetry|
Philosophy While Eating Lucky Charms
Mom told a joke and I spit hearts,
clovers, blue moons. You laughed,
but you never stopped writing
the great American novel
on the back of your hands, your arms,
anywhere you could reach
with pink sparkle gel pen.
Dad said you'd be the writer,
and I'd be the salesman.
A candy star fell and cracked
on the floor. Later, an old satellite
burned as it fell to earth.