3-Line, 3-Minute Poems.
By Elizabeth Gosney
Souls are more present in the frost and fog.
They hide there, waiting to be found.
Blowing snow obscures their view, but not completely.
Red. Blistered. Brown. Freckled.
Shades of skin, of borrowed shells.
Take the towel, leave the shoes.
A burning sensation pierces the throat,
Cooling the tongue, stripping the teeth.
The mind bursts as the blood contracts.
My husband, should I have one, will wear a beard.
But only on special occasions.
Paul Bunyan's birthday, for example.
An impossible feat at age five and two-quarters.
An impossibly persistent annoyance at age twenty-eight.
An impossible presence on one aged four and eighty.
Despised for its class (lack of).
Used for its price (cheap).
Am I speaking of a dollar store or a hooker?
I have no idea what it tastes like,
This steaming, swirling mug of brown.
The smell is my closest aid, a teasing clue of reality.
It sits, which is odd, because I sit on it.
It sits covered in hair. Also true of me.
It's soft -- My goodness, how much I share in common with a love seat.