I love how New York just completely skips Spring. If you ask New York what happened to Spring, you'll get that smart-ass "fuggetaboudit" kind of response, so I don't know why I bother bringing it up.
Here's my poem:
THIMBLE
I am no longer on the list of super friends.
It hits slow, below the belt where most of my biology
is handled. In tribal chant the nonsense of words is
assumed to have extra meaning, I hit my throat
with my hand to make a funny sound, I watch wrestling,
wrapped up in those dead wrestlers asserting
their legacy. Simple as spelling, the feelings I have for most
of you will be obvious at the funeral. You called me,
I missed it, I call you, you missed it. The particles
of dirt always get away from the broom, frustrating me
with the broom's imperfection: if we can't clean up dirt,
what can we do? It just sits all over the floor, every day,
feeling sorry for itself. In this grand hall, the palace
guard lick what is not clean off the princesses' feet.
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