My gut
is a gaping hole
where the pieces
simply fall through its emptiness.

My heart
is a pounding piece of flesh
where the pulse
creates a frantic scratch,
like the nails on a schoolboard.

My head
is a messy forest
where the branches
inhibit visitors
to pass and explore

The horoscope instructs you when to try,
Sportscenter shames
Time poorly spent,
And a commercial on the tv tells you why
You tried to earn more
Than covered rent.
In fact, you’ve learned that you can sigh
From the same logo that aims to prevent
A tree growing straight,
Still wondering why
The kid from Into the Wild preferred a tent.

The weatherman told you when to go but
Those hills have eyes that
Tickle your spine;
You can convince your arteries’ juice to flow
But some streams run deep,
Deeper than a drill could unwind.

The schoolboard cannot be stopped
In rain. In snow,
Knowledge breaks the naked man’s vision.
The hardwood floors in an old house
Grow, and when those panels crack
I hear they glisten.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                           Trousers, Gentlemen, Trousers!

          “There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself,
            'Do trousers matter?'"

            "The mood will pass, sir.”

                     ― P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

Had you visited the post office today
You might have heard an elderly man say
(After opening his newspaper, by the way)

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers”

For there in black and white, on the front page
Was pictured each and every schoolboard sage
Attired in shorts, in deference to the age

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers”

While one appreciates our volunteers
Who serve our schools for free (let’s give them cheers)
The vision of old men’s legs must lead to jeers

Their veined and wrinkled knees – is this a tease?
“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers – please!”