There’s An App For That
I hover over “Children’s Games” with meerschaum and macro lens.
I deduce that play is the spring that makes the world go around.
An early memory is of my hand engineering a barbecue trench.
With one twig I dug a finger deep, and crossed the pit with three.
From aloft and into DNA, deep into mitochondrial DNA, probe.
Which Fate says that Time cuts buttonholes women sew around?
The tree the kid dropped out of marked the year she was born.
Don’t fall from a tree, swoop. Light on the tip of a fishing pole.
God and the Devil got together with a peck of fermented persimmons.
Out of that, Social Media were born. Put that in your pipe and puff.
Don’t know if any Bruegel tykes are playing doctor in the loft.
The smell of new hay, the gold light. The old cat washes her face.