MAKE A POEM OUT OF THAT
If you can't make a poem out of that,
she said, I'll be disappointed --
but I've forgotten what
the raw materials were: our visit
to the Ghanaian cobbler
with racks of dusty shoe polish tins?
The international market
with the forlorn plastic Santa
in the window, boxes of fufu
and Goya tinned mackerel on the shelves?
Maybe it was the blackboards, chalked
with the names of spring beers.
Cartoon stars soaring and twirling.
The little boy, jumping with glee.
This poem wasn't written to any particular prompt. Instead it arose out of an afternoon's errands in Pittsfield.