at the meeting
at the meeting
i slurp my coffee
and click my pen.
i turn her hair colors
and spin wildflowers
from the carpet.
take hardwood and
turn it to clay that
i sculpt into a sweater.
it’s cold and it’s heavy,
my gift to the boss.
so when i fold this paper
into an elevator
he stays here stuck to the ground…
and we go up up and away.
-h
Filed under: Poetry by stephen h @ 10:21 pm on July 23, 2008
TAGS: [at the meeting | Poetry | stephen h | Writings]
