I mean Flash as in I sit, I empty my head (not hard), I write for five minutes. I post. Granted, not the ideal way to tackle poetry, but poetry scares me, so I figure I’ll just do it quickly, you know, like ripping off a band-aid…
The Magic Tree
I am squashed flat. Free-for-all’d. Spat out.
I am contemplating my worth
lying prone on the side-walk.
When I was six years old I had a teacher called Miss Maloney.
Miss Maloney had hair like a bag of oranges.
A bag of oranges on fire.
I loved her.
She took me to the magic tree and told me to hug it.
It sang to me and told me things
I’d never heard before.
Now I wonder how many children she took to the magic tree.
Always I thought it was only me.
Maybe it was.
Maybe I’ll keep believing that,
lying here listening to a thousand footfalls
as the city crowds step over me
and make their way home for tea.