IT’S THE SOFT OATMEAL
 
of the story we tell
to the phonies and the liars
 
and I sing among them.
 
There is the sun
sprouting long arms,
 
a happiness factory,
and here we are
hiding in the shadows
 
our small moments
the scabs.
 
I feel like the hand
of Apollo
 
dusting the earth with
snowdrops
ready to feed the pretty birds
 
hair long
and unpinned
 
loving you all
unencumbered
always.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (First published in the 2015  Issue of Saranac Review)