Brisk October Poem
Clouds gather concentrically overhead.
The weird, creepy church looms large in the distance.
Unfortunately, a poem does not reveal itself.
I continue walking at a jaunty pace.
The world is in the exact shape of my eyes and I have no choice but to believe it.
I cross the street and behold a black Range Rover bearing down on me.
I observe its perfect symmetry slowing down and looking annoyed.
I briefly contemplate a bagel.
Somewhere, someplace it is raining but not that hard.
The phone does not ring before you answer it.
Your voice emerges from the darkness like a crystalline thing.
I forgot what I was going to say so that is what I say.
The things I say are in the exact shape of an email I will send later.
I think about basketball for the rest of the day.
I see the Golden State Warriors in everything.
by Andrew James Weatherhead