Poet: Colin S Smith
Terza Rima for Walking Home
I can smell it later
to feel awake when I demand.
I take the stairs, not the elevator
while looking a buffoon
when meeting the museum’s curator.
Talk about: Picasso, native harpoons,
of what art can do,
or craters on the moon.
Bidding adieu,
enter the land of fools
who do not embrace the day in lieu
of rushing through school.
Finding scattered index cards on tramped
grass reading “cool,”
the dirt felt damp;
like textures of a lucid dream.
No one looks up at an unlit street lamp.
To walk home is to untangle the seams
that tie the strings
of one’s fabricated schemes.
See? Creative juices
flow when locked inside.
It is better for the recluse
to love one’s mind like a bride;
to feel fireworks in the brain collide.