Curry a new poem
with a wire brush
toss vanity aside
when you dare to
hit it two or more swipes
with the same scrub brush
your mother kept the kitchen
clean with, drag with a fine tooth comb
the kind she sought out nits
with when school was overrun
the way ant hordes might come
yet, fire ants from Brazil’s interior
the Amazon bone-dry
old wells besieged
silence the final
architect
by Tom Sheehan
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Tom, how wonderful to find you in my e-mail inbox. My friend Laurel Johnson sings high praise for your writing. Silence as the final architect. That’s an image to haunt us.
Always enjoy a Tom Sheehan!