Dora clanged
her pots and pans
to wake the city
to the ghosts
freed from
their fleshy shells
by fast food
and sugary treats
but only managed
to annoy
the two occupants
of a fishing boat
riding the tide
for the outer banks
as the sun’s
bald head
first breached
the horizon
and everyone else
was too hungover
from New Year’s
solitary celebrations
to respond
to an alarm
about their
pandemic comforts.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney
I will give you one hundred dollars.
There are no strings attached.
There are no loose threads.
There is a federal monetary security thread.
You do not get a choice of denomination.
I will give you one hundred one dollar bills.
Each bill is defaced with a ball point pen’s ink.
A single line of free verse poetry.
You may create your own poem
by placing the bills in a new order.
You may create thirty-three haiku
if you are not picky about syllable count.
But you must read a poem
each time you count out the dollar bills
to pay for a fast food lunch
or a small purchase at the corner store.
There you would be reciting poetry in public
to the astonishment of the listeners.
You might suffer some blow back and cat calls.
You might get asked out on a date.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 