Stan Petrovich (10/27/1950 / Fort Riley, KS)
For you, my sweet;
an apple in your mind's eye;
a strudle in lieu of a pie.
We would, if we could,
walk the sandy shores;
there the birds always croak,
It is a form of a joke,
following the birds at high tide;
we wince laughing at the pelican's poke,
and amuse ourselves at the albatros' blue hide.
There are too many kinds of birds to count,
so we leave it to La Mer to taunt;
I have heard every bird in there;
Sandpipers running like crazy as we stare;
the swirling music breaching the clouds
and the shift of rain chasing the forgotten gulls.
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