circling his ‘i’s he
fine toons his (spleen + bleach) speech
on the titanic
…..for our frontline workers some holy water, garlic and a stake…..
to each chair
its own mask
8 o’clock, Thursday evening. From that first tentative ripple of applause through spatulas on frying pans to a smattering of fireworks, the inhabitants of our locked down microcosmic Wonderland can be heard looking out. For each other.
those still working
I would wake up inside a peony small like an elf and it’s sunday
two pinkish mice
track for mask parcels
Asleep all day.
Awake all night.
Alive. (In spite of a certain FaceTime tea party.)
out of the frying pan–
no one to bellyache
From the car speaker, a recorded voice of a municipal employee repeats again: “stay at home”… the orwellian visions are overwhelming.
I wake up
into the silence
I believe that if we were to remove one element of this poem—–whether the rainwater, chickens, or wheelbarrow—-all of us would die. The universe would be all wrong.
a matter of where you are a rainbow
Joseph Salvatore Aversano
The grandpa’s cuckoo clock here in Rzeszów could strike 1:00 a.m. sharp.
A random clock there in Buffalo might be exactly six hours behind.
Just one cup of espresso could give a decent caffeine kick.
A big mug of sencha green tea might cool down almost unnoticeably.
The very first ‘ma-ma’ could fill two loving hearts with sheer delight.
A shooting star might namelessly fade away in the dark and cloudy sky.
A few slow steps to the top of Mount Everest could be taken.
One careless move might cause a rapid fall towards the terminal station.
A question about the sense of this while could finally grow up.
One of the possible answers might be given so as to spell it out.
to read this
was to read this