Poetry of Issue #8 Page 60

Whispering whims of the world’s smallest hands turned up...
Yet all of time could not fill their supple cup up.

You have always had a room for me in your head
(even without colorful dec’rations hung up)

But I’m a condemned building with too many errors --
With shoddy frames n’ off-kilter stairs not leading up

Did you call my name as I was running down th’ hall --
Was it running for dead? O’ did I hold my head up?

Yes, I have my quirks in far too many manners
Forgotten on th’ tombstone of your mother, now up

But now the greater the love in waves of the heart
The more I get lost in these rooms, for aye locked up.

I wish I could have a prison for love outdoors
By an architect who sings out of a tune up

And looking to the future can nought be brazen
Call me Quasi-model, but at least sum it up.

Michael T. Smith