Friday Night

Poetry is Friday night.

Poetry is when prose lets its hair down

And begins to enjoy itself.

Poetry is painting the town red.

It’s the glance, the waving hair, the smile.

It’s the beer brimming over at the bar.

It’s the music that takes you back.

Let me tell you what it isn’t.

It isn’t the humdrum or the serious,

Or the grim look or the worried frown.

It isn’t the reasonable.

It isn’t prose.

It is the head held high,

With eyes on the sky and the clouds.

It is the light step going somewhere,

As daily life with shoulders bent

Casts his eyes down to the ground

And slowly plods on by.

Poem every Monday