By Daniel P. Barbare

Cleaning the Office

Making my way lightheartedly and joyfully
I’m cleaning the office
while writing a
poem,
harmoniously and
ceremoniously with ear, mind, and hands.

My Thoughts

Happiness
arrives

when
I’m
just
plain
broke

not
a
penny
to
spend

just
lean
back
with
my
thoughts.

Peaches at the Market

Soft and ripe
the peaches
are calling me
back,
my hands are
remembering the
scent
the delicious
ghost of a taste
but I don’t let
it haunt
me, I eat peaches
and milk.

America Writes!

What can I do, food like
ink, oil that
writes, migrants
on the page like sweet
liberty, that
makes the hand
strong like
America, a pen
that clicks like
peace, recycling paper
that saves the
trees and cleans
the air we breathe
what can I do but
carry it in
my pocket
wherever I go
a poem that dreams
surly man made
that streets
like a refillable cartridge.

The Director

She always looks up to me.
Makes me feel like one
of them.
Makes me feel
like someone with a
broom and
dust pan
in my hand. Says the
janitor. She is the director.
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