Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.

It started with a cookie -- oatmeal and raisin,
soft and moist like a May strawberry.
Mom said, "wait." But waiting didn't
taste as good as stealing.
Cookies came and went -- grade school turned into
high school and lessons turned into tests.
The teacher said, "study hard." But studying
wasn't as much fun as cheating.
Graduation day arrived -- as class Valedictorian,
my speech brought my classmates to tears.
I said, "Don't ever sell out." But selling out
is easier to do than laboring.
I started my career -- working in Corporate America.
Easy money schemes abounded.
The boss said, "don't break the law." But bending
sometimes leads to breaking.
Sentencing day arrived -- convicted on nine counts.
I'm eligible for parole in fifteen years.
The judge said, "resist temptation." But resisting
doesn't satisfy like enrapturing.

All that remained
was just an enigmatic shell.
All that remained
of decades filled with things obtained
to quench this narcissistic hell,
we realized we had to sell
all that remained.

With mouth agape, just like a clown,
I'm drifting through a brand new town.
All captivated by the lights,
I'm glaring, staring at the sights,
that awe me with their high renown.

As though wearing a royal crown,
I'm floating through this well-known town.
Above the sky, I reach new heights,
with mouth agape.

Too high for life to pull me down,
I'm soaring through this humdrum town.
On wings that arc above the lights,
I scarce can see the dwindling sights
of people, places, things and nouns,
with mouth agape.

Playful cups of sensual coffee tease each other across the way,
flirting, steaming whiffs of flavor -- double espresso and latte.
With a touch of creamy caramel and a shot of mocha too,
muggy coffees, slow as turtles, serve double entendre brew.

I love watching Susan write.

She puts every ounce of her being
into coming up with something wonderful.
Her nose twinkles and she purses her lips.
A glance heavenward
when she needs the right word or phrase
is rewarded by new inspiration and
transforms into increased vigor
for her writing hand.

I love watching Susan write.

I didn't like the prompt.
I don't think it liked me either.
Staring at me,
laughing really,
it mocked my inability
to be inspired.

But I was inspired.
Doubly so!
Just not by it.
I was inspired by the class,
by my fellow students,
by the poems we read, and by the poems
waiting to be written.

In a way,
I was even inspired by the prompt.
But don't let it find out.