A short, nonsensical poem I wrote while walking to "Literary Classics on Film:"
Four o'clock air, pregnant with storm
A mole on the sidewalk,
Recently deceased with its eyelids closed and
its pink velvet star reaching up to the stratus
Tightrope walker
Toes curled, head held high
Holds in one hand a mandolin
In the other:
Tri-colored pasta for mother.
Oh and the picture is of my door, and no, I did not draw any of those cats. I guess I am known for the same types of things here as I was in high school.
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