These Are Not Flowers

by Steve Mitchell

If I’m honest, and I’m not honest, I don’t know a thing.

Or I do.


I don’t know.

A thing.

Those clever words, desperate, tricking us, our fancy words, arrogant, they paint us.

And what’s the word for the hold-your-breath instant of overload as memories surge then are gone?

And what’s the word for the pang and pain of noticing strangers, self-conscious and small, as they watch their their own footsteps?

“Oh, well,  you know, I mostly only feel this way or that way because…”

I don’t know.

A thing.

With my words.

But the dogs perk up when I say food.

And the cat narrows its eyes.


sorry, bee –
my red motorcycle
is red


© Steve Mitchell 2016