Please do not count my number, just ignore me, I am yesterday before space grown cotton socks, before Mick Jagger, some woman singing about being a “woman”, I find myself, “the gift not opened”, possibly the same thing, perhaps once opened I would generate a large number of gifts, I am easily fascinated, liking both silence and noise, never a dull moment I might smoke and ingest, edibles and the strange world, smell me I remind lovers of a blossoming apple tree, dig up the grave of Robert Frost and send me visual proof, sometimes I exist in a TV Western but that is private, best friends with a benevolent hero, unfolding gay cowboys, untidy women who will put their cooter on display, ultimately unavoidable—Michael the gift, the gift unopened
CONVERSATIONAL POETRY 