No.48

.

Words are fleet of foot sometimes,

Like catching eels in wet cement.

Lifetime crafting crafty rhymes,

Left not knowing where they went.

Things you learn, the bitter pills,

Nonetheless you heed the lesson:

Muses come and go at will,

Fickle bitches keep you guessing.

Could’ve been a happy man,

Baking bread or fixing hoovers;

Instead I’m not sure what I am —

My curriculum vitae?

A lacuna.

.

No.48

Erik Kaisson, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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