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
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.