by Janet I. Buck

Poets and stray dogs
know the meatless bone
of empty space,
I.V.'s of why
and the cavernous cradle
of ditches and dreams.
Know eggs and art
have fragile shells.
That error sets
in jello molds.
And mystery is always wedged
between our certain toes.
Know tapping cantaloupes
with scrutiny
will always bruise the flesh.
That pundits and puppies
wag commas and tails.
That laughter's lotion
and delusion
always freeze in candor's cold.
And starch or will
can never pleat
the days we try so hard to fold.

About the author: Janet Buck teaches writing and literature at the college level and is widely published in journals, e-zines, and anthologies around the world. Her poetry sites on the web have received more than thirty awards, including the distiguished Predators and Editors: Author's Site of Excellence and The Circle of the Muses Award of Inspiration. "Writing," she says, "is a tuba in a long parade that chases pain and sorrow to its dissolution."

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Copyright 1998 by Janet I. Buck