For The Birds

He was the master of His Space
Tho’ the space was kind of small
In a room on the second floor
On the right and down the hall
The avians would tap at his window
But he kept at his important work
Rhyming and versing with vigor
But he manifested another odd quirk
When stuck for just the right word
He would let one lucky avian in
Then go to the start of his poem
There he’d recite the lines all again
Flapping his arms up and down
He swore that would do the trick
The dam would at last burst
And rhymes came fast and thick
Returning the avian to the feral
He’d finish his work at such a pace
And the lonely poet would beam
As again he’d mastered His Space

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About Kitt

Sometimes a rhyme or couplet wanders across my consciousness. So, I share it. Other times I'm a hospice social worker; others, a Dad; others, southerner, New Orleanian, cajun enthusiast, voter, and on better days, a not-too-awful-poet/rhymster. Welcome to my page. Enjoy.

Posted on January 26, 2013, in Poem. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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