Who can write honestly about it?
A giant golden hole sucking the night into its light.
Its rays fanning out like a broom,
To sweep your lies into the open sky.
We see countless births with each one.
What will it be today despair or hope?
Will it be for old clichés,
Couples kissing on a beach at the end of May?
But shouldn’t my soul be afraid of the children she bares?
Why couldn’t today be another politician?
Kissing babies, and launching missiles?
Or will it be a hermit’s home,
Off the grid and out of control?
Will it bring one thought-free moment?
Locked out-of-time with something elusive?
Yes, I think it will.
I honestly hope it will.
Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.