Each poetry prompt gets its chance to play Muse of the Day
giving me something meaningful from what I’ll lose of the day.
The farther into yesterday or the more into tomorrow I reach,
the more random it is, independent of what I choose of the day.
Dreams don’t change things, not like how yours do when you
are believed in. For me, dreaming’s but my residues of the day.
I look like I fell down the stairs again and him not stepping over
to laugh at my predicament with its blacks and blues of the day.
Stars don’t mean anything by it when they make ancient shapes
unless I can use indelible ink to etch them like tattoos of the day.
Have I lost you all over again? That quickly? And that easily so?
Hey, at least credit me as one of your breakthroughs of the day.
I said, I fell down the stairs again, this time with a heavyass shelf
racing me down. Don’t worry yourself, just my bruise of the day.
Don’t take yourself so seriously, Cyn. Your love is as fleeting and
as little noticed and as soon to be forgotten as news of the day.