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

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