Tuesday poem #591 : George Shelton : Moments

 

Most days fall asleep usual, and the hour each
bird on every branch in trees and
bushes cheeps a claim on the
sun modernizing daylight, you wake up
in anatomical mix-up—think ankle a knee,
chin a nose. Yet by breakfast, biological imperative
shows: Internal, a horse, front legs pushing up first,
stands metabolical in the chest a blunt-force
steadiness. External, a woodpecker holds up a tree in
windiness, gazes a gem intensity says
Sweet, buggy wood pockets here!
And later, as usual, the Logical Dog wants you always
terrific on the sidewalk and figures you, sniffs
any toy act or swoon, spots weakness
in a brow squinch or now
that wet blink stops you, moments,
to grin when three school children, 6 or 7,
dart past squealing,
fierce smiling, running emotional complexities
and don't know it, will have soft breathing,
moments, and sometimes feel it.

George Shelton lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Spork, The Iowa Review, Flashquake, NOON, International Times, and the anthology category (published by Cue magazine).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan