Cracked Pots…

We drink smoky tea – whilst rolling
our own slender ciggies.
All I can see through the smoke filled haze
are a couple of straggly red geraniums in their
bloated cracked plastic pots.
They crave for your attention –
A feeling I know like the back of my hand.
With cool calm precision: I weigh up all the odds
their wants are easier to solve than mine.
No competition: picking them up
I plunge them in the bin…

Poppy ~xx~

Today’s poem of the day on deadbeatspoets.eu

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