• mamatikaani711 7w

    Last night, I printed all my poems,
    put them in a plastic bag
    and crawled out my
    bedroom window to the roof.
    There I stood beneath the moon,
    grabbed everything I could,
    and flung 40 years of words to the sky.
    Many white pages,
    like plucked wings of a mythical bird,
    flapped and fluttered to the ground,
    the first complaint, I imagine,
    of the man who comes
    tomorrow morning
    to mow the lawn.

    -Mitch Ditkoff