Yesterday
I wrote two very bad poems,
I apologize.
Last week I said something
which offended somebody.
I’m sure they remember
but I’ve forgotten what it was.
Not long ago I bought shirts
with sleeves too long,
and the collar too tight,
I was distracted.
With cooking it’s a shambles;
I follow recipes
and get the ingredients wrong.
Was it a cup of sugar or salt?
Perhaps a pinch of sugar will do.
In any case I’m praised
for original flavors,
though no one eats my food.
I’m shy at the wrong times
and a bull in a china shop
when a soft word is needed.
It makes me an uninvited guest,
and my friends put up with me,
saying no doubt, I’m odd.
You never know what’s next.
Yes, I laugh at funerals
and accuse my allergies,
and cry at bad jokes
which are hurtful.
The dirty ones I despise
so people think I don’t like sex,
and so it goes.
Out of step,
out of tune,
which brings me back to my bad poems.
When I decide to write, I can’t.
When I can’t,
well sometimes I get it right.
The point is
the stuff in the waste basket
is probably my best.
Not to change the subject,
have I mentioned how I mix socks
and get the shoes wrong?