Writing with grenadine sticky hands.
This feeling will only last so long
before it’s gone for,
only a little while.
The traffic light signs…
Big red pentaverates.
Remind me
Of a middle age story.
Some stone and cobble and leaves
And yellow everywhere.
That poem,
endlessly beautiful.
the tress of trees
the knight, the monster
the cutting off of heads
The pentaverate
which is mine
which is my five.
Why not write a poem about it?
Why not write?
I have a leather journal
Always, asking the same.
But on the bus?
No never.
The sunshine is too loud through the windows
And there’s fifty knights staring.
Where’s the aperol?
My hands are sticky.
I’m ready finally.