The house goes from the dark glow of the street
lights as they look inside like timed security guards
to a brighter, cleaner hand of light
as it scrubs away the night.
I drink morning water and wait to read
the words of the sons and the daughters of
earth. I wait at the stream of thought waiting
for the fish and meat of thought and soul to
bite on the hook of crooked fingers as
they make a line in the river of words
flowing on to a pixilated shore as
the poet as fisherman hooks any old
fishy thought that goes to the trouble to
Explanation: If you have to explain a joke, it’s probably not funny. That’s not true with poems. They are true word play and sometimes rather fun. Thus, I present this here one. It has 10 syllables per line, and 14 lines. Thanks for reading. I kind of dig poetry. Any comments welcome.