My tree
with
greenery
unfoldes.
Un-sheep.
Un-shepherds in their dotage,
driven to sudden refusal by the appearance of
election-year Valentines slid into my cell.
(But careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy
is on fire.
Like our hats are.
Which we remove & hold before
our chests when we bow our
smoking heads in greeting.)





(The group poem from our last open mic.)