At times life is a parade
in a tumultuous rain
that starts as a monsoon then
turns into a tsunami.
Wait, . . . no,
that’s not life . . .
that was
last night’s dream.
At times I confuse the two
and who can do poetry
in a confused state . . . like mine,
which is, like, Alabama.
What is, and what is not, are
so nearby, the difference
can be difficult to tell,
like that door of Beckett’s play
“imperceptibly ajar.”
Now, dear reader, if a door
be in such state, can we say
whether it’s open or closed?
At times a mind is like that.
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