Don’t get me wrong, the weather still sucks.
Move to a tropical island of steak, if you like steak.
Sleeping on silk is a must for overnight smoothing.
It’s not messy, you fancy lady. That ain’t right.
The secret is a bunch of junk in 2020, a piece of art.
You should be able to look at it. It’s mostly
a dizzying game of women in a nosedive of fertility.
I’ve decided to share one poem each day that this COVID-19 whatever-you-call-it lasts. I truly don’t know what we’re officially calling it at the moment here in Illinois. Not really a quarantine yet? Still just social distancing, but more extreme than a few days ago? I don’t know. But if what many of us need is connection and reading material, then I can contribute at least a tiny something to both. Also, it’s a little silly to hold poems back on the pretense that I might want to submit them somewhere. It’s been two years since I last did that. I can spare these, and I want to share them. Remember, this month, I’m writing from phrases I find in the March issue of Cosmopolitan.