How to Write Poetry
by Andrew Tully
Amongst avocadoes, the discussion turns soft as mushed oats.
Dead weight diesel engines rattle out of garaged hibernation,
with the same rattle clutched by reptilian fingers many small years
ago.
Burning tobacco in a rainstorm requires more than elongated cat guts.
Twin-edged steak knives dislodge jogging stoplights. Rusted metal tubing
sounds slippery when wet, but both know better than to bottle seaweed.
Tornado sirens mystify the private fish-school, mandating the art of
archery.
Anonymous road signs shampoo carpets of hunchbacked dogwood trees;
despite suspicious grape leaves on parole, the banana outweighs the
jackhammer.
House keys hasten a carbonated sunrise, as aluminum sideburns grace
suburbs.
Yellowed bellied sapsuckers take roadside foul shots, subsisting on
eggplants,
artichoke hearts, and diluted toilet water. Somewhere in the northern
Italian Alps
crumbles a concrete bobsled track from the 1968 Winter Olympics, as
if I would know.
Copyright © 2001 by Andrew Tully.
