The last day of May and
not a ice cream cone in tact.
It’s like it’s someone’s birthday;
a celebration song of myself
as Walt Whitman said, where the
“Houses and rooms are full of perfumes”.
Not unlike a ghost or a magnet, I say that
absence makes the perfume smell stronger.
Chemistry can be without material
while words can be meaningless and forgettable.
Because nothing smells better than a reunion.
This makes me gaze up after stuffing my face
With distractions to ask you –
What’s more important?
The life of a child or the life of a rare gorilla?
Mothers never lack conviction.
To Whitman, he knew nothing else but miracles.
Poets have a magnetic way
of making a celebration out of nothing,
like ice cream and perfume and evolution.
So why do I feel like any moment
a house is going to drop on me
and I’m going to come out evil?
Found poem: Inspired by Whitman’s poem, “Song of Myself” published in 1855