Selected Poems
Exit 32 Lunch Workshop
Inside a little less than an hour, at a west bound
service-road bus-stop after-thought pass-by park.
Five guys and girls benched with some fries write
down a dozen or so greasy brown bag poems
rolled up dry and packed up in paper towels.
Promise bleeds ruin at the Brandy-wine.
With a steady circus downpour of fear
ice-cold clowns and gas station beer
hand-washed poems will fade away in
a jump shot, garbage to a green big top bin.
Maybe someone will remember
go back and recycle this, for you.
