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by Joan Pond
A sudden snow squall as we headed to Maine.
Another weekend of Paul asking,
when are you moving in?
Much silence as snow fell.
Pines appeared
as Crest-coated toothbrushes.
I laughed at the ceiling fan,
circulating mephitic air;
snow shoes on the wall,
and all the things that made
this place extemely, him.
There was no room for me
unless I was mounted to a wall.
And so I called a taxidermist,
asking,
what I should do.
Copyright © 1999 by Joan Pond, All rights reserved
Send private comments to author: boodles1@aol.com
Read the Poem Of Every So Often at http://www.artvilla.com