I was born under
the sign of the broken
bow and arrow on
a hotter than average
Provo afternoon.

My first breath
tasted like,
“must be something better
than this.”

I will refrain from
poets’ cliches.
*Insert Juan Ramon Jiminez,
“If they give you ruled paper,
write the other way.”

You try living with a
seven-year famine and
a five-minute plague.
Let me know if you fair
any better.

Maybe you haven’t
closed your eyes
and seen his
perfect face staring
directly
not in your direction.

But with this case of pens
I dug my way out
of the hole
lot of nothing there.

I don’t mean to be
Mrs. Kravitz,
but honey
belongs on bread.

Tomorrow,
I hope to wake
and realize it’s Sunday.

I’ll hammer
out a line or two
and get to work
mending that broken arrow.