I am a man at home
folding my wife’s delicates.
Well, why the hell not?

Most certainly stop in,
a city of red fire
growing from your head,
hooligans dressed
in red and white everywhere,
a magic thing.

Outside, there’s a ruckus, as usual.
It begins with the flies.
Noisy, black flies.
I do not know exactly when. . . .

My own mother is 98.
Mostly now she sleeps,
and when she does,
what she dreams
is small enough to fit
in the palm of your hand.

Howie Good, 2015

Remixed works:

Posts from submishmash, 6 November 2015