Do poets write poems at all manner of time?
Are they greeted at waking with sweet rose scented rhyme?
I think not, or naught of prose with every exhale,
Instead I pen, sure only to fail.
I open my thoughts and in come an odd trio;
Biscayne, Saffron stained and tobacco wrapped veal.
Repulsed I take leave of this. “I give up!” I proclaim,
“Winner Winner, Chicken dinner” will not follow my name.
This started with thoughts of my Grandmother’s chest.
Not the one on her bosom but below her front steps.
Its cedar exterior held tissue wrapped mysteries,
With family secrets and unanswered queries.
Full circle again, I fail to expand.
A beg you dear reader, please give me a hand.
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