They had their day
in the sun

and now

they're
having one more

among the hard
brown

hills and
dusty

desert floor

they sit
battered

bruised
with rust

each blinded
in one eye

one more heave

one more gasp

one more time

holding off

that last
breath and twitch

In the not so distant
future

the yard

now brown

will be green again

and shortly after that

Dandelions
and Butter Cups

will pop up
like planets

and once more

orbit
an invisible moon


Whit Howland © 2019

Drops
like saucers
or oblong moons

splash
on a neon sign

a place
where glitz
and glam

clash
with the everyman

and alien and earthly
things

collide

Outside
the bare
tree branches

some brittle
some strong

interlock
and crisscross

the pattern
haphazard

so it seems

the method

apparently
unsound

Whit Howland © 2019

Just flat gray
on a canvas

painted

sometimes
globbed in spots

with a thick
brush

some might say

dull

but it can't all be beautiful

can it

or some days
is it just best
to be

consistent

rather than always
try

to swoosh
to the stars

or swing for
the fences

Whit Howland © 2019

I no longer have
the knack I once had

for removing one side
of the doll house
then stepping back

and looking in
at all the stuff
that is both our lives

seeing each thought
and feeling
in every room

as a figurine

life it seems

so suddenly
pulled me under

stripped me of the title
making me a player
an understudy of sorts

for 23 years
we've been friends

until one day

or shall I say

one night

the notion throttled me

you were gone
and not coming back

Whit Howland © 2019

You don't hear me
anymore

my voice

as if buried
among many

yellow
pressed

and crinkled
notes

on your old
bulletin board

Whit Howland © 2019