Payday Loans (23 of 31)

Honestly, I don’t give a shit for spring
poems. Look how alert I am, mince they,
how sensitive. I’ve never seen the gray
budding to green in brown-toned, -stoned Brooklyn.
The leaves appear overnight on the scene.
Those tulips look transplanted from some bouquet.
They’re not mouths. Call them tongues and still they say
nothing. The grass, o green grass, does not sing.
The birds are so noisy I cannot think
and so down to the promenade I stray,
hoping to see Manhattan’s bright buildings
across the East River, bridges and quays.
A mist has risen and turned air to spray,
distance to sea. I can’t see a damn thing.

Comments

Evonne'slife said…
Hey! Mr. Koh!
10:41 AM
Anonymous said…
This is your ex-student... Nice blog decorated with beutiful words...
8:19 AM
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