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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
3d
East of the garden
It's just the same
but different
and it's a game
we all play.
Individual
invisible
occasionally irascible
but mostly
amenable.
Count to five
hold your breath
another ten
and ten more
then another
smother yourself in the feeling
until your mind is reeling
and exhale.
it's a game, and we're the same
all testing boundaries.
Sunday night and it might be Monday
tomorrow might be that other day
that we read about.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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Danika
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