Five is the gathering hour,
time to pool scraps from napkin backs,
thoughts that passed slowly enough
to stuff in a pocket—
hurried impressions of an oil-slicked loon,
the words soft fear on a line alone.
Another lists catfood, Risperdal
and celery; skips a line before a reminder
to check the meaning of reverie.
Last, on the back of a sketch I made
of your laugh, only the words brief respite.
by Patricia Wallace Jones
Editor’s Note: Some poems have such strong imagery that it seems as if I’m looking at a painting instead of reading verse. This is one of those poems.