A poem a day is a great opportunity to rev up your writing, grab images and find the gem in the mundane. Here’s another one from August’s Postcard Poetry Fest.
“Don’t.” That’s the first word
I remember…a voice from above,
Don’t doesn’t mean anything
if you’re eighteen months old.
Adults on the couch, laugh,
I reach to the huge green olive
with a pimiento dot.
A finger wags. I wait.
Sip. Sip. Sip. They drink
and then a glass is lowered.
I snatch the shiny green treasure,
suck tart juice, bite into chilled olive,
martini juice runs to my elbow.
On Friday night’s they forget