I write these words
On the back of a crumpled
And long discarded plain
paper grocery bag . . .
The next time
you are at the store
pick up a dozen
poems or more
A quart of ilk,
or better still
a pint of dream
fancy free.
A loaf of dread,
fear nought, preferred
with happy seeds
twelve grain.
And something sweet
utterly fault free
to spread over the dread
and make it palatable
Oh . . . please don’t forget
something strong
to unclog the brain
and feed the mind
