Saturday, May 28, 2016

Writing With Your Left Hand.

Sometimes I write with my left hand
when the weather turns cold,
and my heart is pounding in my chest
like an anchored drum.
I can't seem to shake the feeling
that I am being watched
as I walk down Fifth Avenue, but
it is only a blue jay,
looking for a place to stay out of the storm.
There is no justice anymore,
when a bird cannot find a place to nest,
and the darkness is so dark I cannot see my hand
in front of my face,
even as I write, even as I imagine
places far from here,
where blue jays live in blue peace.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

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