Writing Poems That Sell

A poem by Jack Belck


NO:

It’s Time For My Breakfast.

 

YES:

Brown Wheaties

and

blue windmills

dance and

frown against

the purple ceiling

as Pompeii’s

Princess Penelapea,

pulsing with

congealing

feeling,

cries,

“Lava’s going to kill me.”

 

Meow!

Two blueberries, a bit of cereal,

ten laps of milk left

in the red bowl.

Down it goes.

Pompeii can wait.

Kitty comes first.

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