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Juj the Running Mantra

fireflies trees rain

Twinkle

I’ve never claimed or even wanted to be a worthy poet. But you have to do something with the brain while you jog through a humid evening. Thus:

Seneca smells like meat

and I’m beggin’ the sky

to bleed

rain to cool the skin

and wash away

pollen.

I see grey clouds up above

and fireflies blinkin’ love;

Juj you cross my mind

and the memories are kind.

Has another storm come yet

to the house on Lafayette?

I blow a kiss your way

until Saint Patrick’s Day.

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