Maxx

17

Picnic

Harsh bark grating against my spine,
chipper birds spout sharp shrill protest,
Gentle winds push for my early return.
Back-to-the-car
Back-to-your-car.

My basket: a blanket, stale crackers.
Green apple, half a cheddar block,
and a book of published poetry
for which my hands fumbled desperately
in a fleeting moment of inspiration.

Without a blank pad, unarmed but for the pen I pocketed on my way out the door.

Thumbed through fast for a vacant page
without thought to the offence the coming moment would bear.

Scrawling my poem amongst masters’?
As if some fool hurled a candle to the night sky and prayed it might stay there.