Beaming

Sitting at the piano

Scuffed up keys

Scarred dreams

Writing a Writtle

In the middle of

flutes & fiddles

Dipped bits of toast

In a little spilt yolk

Giving the hot tea

a poke in hopes

It’s not too hot

To sip and not

Burn my tongue

Curtains drawn

 Sun turned on

 even racoons

Couldn't steal

a dropped

 Crumb Of joy

From the room

Tossed withered

Watered bloom

The ghettos

  indeed more

 than a tomb

taking this

Still moment

 close & seal

 flights aboard

  Crescent Moons

Whence night

Snores,  

Streets

do talk

say less

write more