It’s just neurons in my head, firing.
Bumble bees and wilted flowers,
a song heard once on a tinny radio.
Regret hanging like smoke in a treetop.
Think twice and it’s gone.
I still use a pen, hold it
between fingers fat as cigars
while coaxing out a line
every twenty-three minutes.
This sport is not fit for broadcast.
Remember, Michelangelo was a bit
of a beast. And Picasso.
And Jackson Pollock, that idiot
who liked to spatter paint.
At least I keep my shoes clean.
Robert L. Penick is not someone you would notice on the street.
