Untitled

by jdavidcharles

Sometimes I have little to say–or rather want to say little–about my poems.

Untitled

This morning
the usual

perturbances:
headache,

old clothes,
the throb

and clutter
of waking

life. But
who knew

the scratches
on the porch—

scuff of
pigeon

brawling,
the possum’s

climb, two
late night

cats, sprawled,
made love.

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