Chuck

I was not a good poet today,

walking carelessly through a day

too full for mandatory observation–

 

too full of grass in my toes,

hammock flips,

no longer distant friends and

the familiar tune of each other’s laughing,

striding across the air,

knees wobbling and eyes narrowing

into something worth focus,

and the Sun,

talking with the Sun. 

I traced a tree trunk

with my friend, the ant.

 

I think his name was Chuck.

 

Sorry I wasn’t a good poet, Chuck. 

I liked your jokes, though.

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