Underground Turtles

there is the
washing of dishes

and when you finish
the
washing of dishes

there is the
washing of dishes.

Find time to milk the cow.
And plow?
How?

Find time to make things rhyme.
Find time to be word-absurd,
soak head in bucket of water..
How?
I shall soak my head in a bucket of
slop; yes, I said poetry.
(Paint word-acrylics
and be embecilic. I said poetry.)

How?

When you are through
with
the washing of dishes

there is the
washing of dishes

and when you finish–
the
washing of dishes.

©August 18, 2015 by UT2

Funny to imagine, them out there without me,
stopping by a shoeshine boy,
searching for a dime,
but so assertive now,
the two of them in their newfound freedom.

There they are in front of the newsstand
now feeling important,
leisurely, hanging carelessly about,
their laces hanging out.

This morning they were impertinent,
a bit self-possessed.
They were tired of me too long
in the bathroom
probably seeing me as vain;
perking the coffee, sitting down
with pen in hand drawing a blank.

They needed to make a statement,
two empty shoes,
here we are, here!
Tongues hanging out from too much wear
but rows of eyes from which to look out of,
two empty shoes
out to face the world.

©Sept 2, 2013 by UT2

There is no lateness.
There is no early.
Tonight, simply: “the moment”;
timelessness.
In the house
the lights wink out.
There is no deep reflection,
no over whelm of thought–

only a flicker of leaves
in the starlight;
from the barn–
the welcome light
left on in the loft.

The hinges groan;
a backwards glance,

and then, the catch of the latch.

©Oct 13, 2012 by UT2