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<a href=" WORDLE for my book of poetry “AM MUSIC”

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George In The History Department

Hiding my flops and flaws in

soliloquies of cynicism; world-woeful,

like Burton in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”.

    Rooms of voluminous shadows, literature

and textbooks in unattended piles.  I

constantly organize my disarray.

    Dimmed lighting

    Ochre incandescence

    Soft edges

    Muted music

My quiet conversations are complaints

and observations of cultural things:  the

words I’ve written, the books I’ve read,

songs that move me, art in my head.

    Burton in extreme close-up, with his

thinning, unruly hair, tie askew, ancient

cardigan stretched over paunchy belly,

ruminates with unfocused eyes cast on

some unseen cause=and=effect from long ago.

Reality is the cackle of crows on some

well-lit front porch, in archetypal autumn

that I romanticize as contentment.

But I am at ease with regret

and ponder options that meander

like paths through the suburban woods.

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