7 A.M. on a Sunday Morn

Poetry should be something like—

I don't know what.

Ravens in the sky flying

Whispering away.

Crows sitting on fence-posts

Glaring with their beady yellow eyes

Would I care to take

From their garden?

Sunday morning, go to church

Ghouls take up all the empty seats

That's just life in my

Psychosomatic realm.

I scorn the living and love the dead.

Let us go the hot spot where

All the smoke floats up to form

Black clouds.

Rain, will you not, on my parade?
It cannot be blacker than it already is
With rain all my petty dreams will fade
Rain, will you not, on my parade?

I should have known

Not to wake up

To come outside today. . .

Rain, will you not, on my parade?
It cannot be blacker than it already is
With rain all my petty dreams will fade
Rain, will you not, on my parade?