Meeting Michael
might make me
mad.
Meeting Michael
at midnight in the
month of May.
Mingling with Michael
must mean missing
many moons.
Mingling with Michael
I am, miserably muttering
my most magical moment.
Misfit Michael
mustering molding men.
Misfit Michael
mercilessly manipulating
my mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your Michael poems make me laugh. Love both of them, written with a suspicious heart?