there is no sour taste
i am not beaten down by logic–
i apply it dutifully like paste on my teeth
a fine pesticide mist to keep the flies
from laying their eggs inside my heart
yes we know what happens to Ichabod
some things reside beyond belief
but he won’t get swept away like all the leaves
in the annual pumpkin pathos
i won’t be an amateur shot
i won’t lose my head
The 365 Poetry Project 