Cleaning out one’s life
A gargantuan task
Mrs IRA
The Poet
The Serbian Phalanx
Mr T at times often
Upset and swearing
That he cannot find his
Papers any longer.
He might be going thru’
One of the artwork boxes
But as he never sorted his
Life out
It’s left behind and will be
Again placed into boxes
As if once for all buried
In an archive store.
Mrs T takes the strain
Upfront
She needs to relax
So often her girlfriend
And also the poet had
The task ascribed the
Pacifier’s role.
One early morn’
She phones worried
Where her papers are
She had me copied the
Other day.
The Poet knows.
As the heavens light up
Above the Danube river
He’s on his way
Glued to his range
Thoughts.

zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.