The Poet Poem by Steven David
The Poet
The wall-clock ticks,
my hands are old,
I think of youth -
those winning smiles.
A peppermint
upon my tongue,
and in this room,
my writing desk.
Tap, tap, typing,
bent like an 'S',
I hurry up
at least two lines.
Now i may view
my daily soap,
a story told
in TV land -
Where Jim gets on
with pulling pints -
and Sally Ann
is made of light.
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4/20/2024 10:33:15 PM # 1.0.0.1119
