3-Line, 3-Minute Poems.
By Elizabeth Gosney
Layers of color, of textures, of taste.
Good with salt, if you are brave.
Or not. The orange melon is like your head.
Blue, plastic seats, hard as ice, just as cold.
Finger streaked windows, billows of smoke, screeching brakes.
The beast eats us alive, spits us out at pre-planned pit stops.
Tight jaw. White knuckles. Penetrating stare.
At nothing. Nothing moves.
No matter how you will it to.
Unsuspecting, these miniature delights.
Unsuspecting, as am I, to their velvet I will taste.
Unsuspecting as to their fate — boiling stomach acid and an inglorious exit.