Illegible Scribbles

Poetry arrives at our door.
Road weary. Grimy.
Footsore from sixty-thousand steps that day.

Poetry plops down on my couch.
Turns on the TV.
Accepts a cup of ginger tea.

Poetry dresses down
the artwork on our walls.
Not enough typeface.

Poetry takes off its shoes.
Curls up on the couch, falls asleep,
and snores haikus.

Poetry puts on its walking shoes
at four-thirty in the morning.
On the way out,

it leaves the front door ajar.
Its signature footprints vanish
as the carpet pile rebounds.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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