It was not to be, this day of care.
Wait for tomorrow on failure of purpose.
But what to wait for, in darkest hour,
or just another day that is beautiful.
The birds still sing, though alarmed at no show.
She does it best, she knows
the glide in time for hair.
Another circumspect chance,
a mirror at the back of the head.
But we need to question this life
without another day of neon.
So we'll take our time, but
rush to run, pant, take another
hour to work, work.
The quadriceps, the four.
Is it true that is near to your heart?
Draw me a picture of that,
an appointment with my cab.
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.