The whistle of a teapot
As the painter adds another spot.
The spillway with water flows
As the writer pens some prose.
Steam exudes from the dryer vent
While the poet works out what he meant
And what he said from what he intended,
For fear the meaning was upended.
But tonight well after dark,
This guy, he was a madman in the park:
Singing at the top of his lungs,
A full concert was sung.
He sang some old favorites, some new
In full pursuit of cathartic stew.
Twenty songs later, he left for home
Solely because his smartphone battery groaned.
Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 