What poet wouldn't
for one lifetime at least
love to be a writer of
popular fiction?
Rabid fans rewriting
and inventing new
scenes and characters
all in a multidimensional universe
from the author's big bang.
Whoa. Imagine that
for poems. Would the
red wheelbarrow
find different chickens?
Would November resuscitate
its status as
the cruelest month?
Would baby rabbit fur
replace feathers
as the thing with hope?
These furtive hopes should
wash their hands
at the memorial
to Doctor Frankenstein.
His ghost reminds us
that all creatures should hope
to sprinkle rosemary on the sidewalk
and dwell as a temporary delight
nosed only near to the ground
wiped into the traffic's street
on the first brush with breeze
Roman Ryan 