Bad Kids
step off school grounds, cross the street,
and loiter in the shade of ash trees – puppies
crowding against a mother’s belly, scraping
for milk and warmth. They lip cigarettes
like teats, spew smoke against caterpillars
hidden between wrinkles of bark, laughing
as each worm curls around its death. They walk
in the rain, wed to apathy, drag its stones –
tin cans behind a limousine. They need
these streets to hear their clatter. Noise –
all they possess. Morning brings its light,
spews its reminders as bad kids, hidden between
wrinkles of linen, curl around their deaths.
© S Thomas Summers
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Q&A
Q: Where does your inspiration come from?
A: Where doesn’t it come from? In find inspiration hidden under a fallen leaf, in the well of a coffee cup, in the wrinkled skin of an old tree. Poetry is everywhere. It simply asks to be noticed. Look. Inspiration follows.
Q: Share with us an experience that has enriched your writing/poetry/creativity.
A: Breathing. Living. All things enrich. Each moment is a savored spice. Windows are key. Sometime, I stand at a near a window, fixing my eyes at something seemingly insignificant – and I stare. Soon, poetry begins to seep into my vision.
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emrah's cousin by baÅ?ak from Flickr.com
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