TIM PHILIPPART

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

Time Not Taken

Cruising on 80,
ahead of schedule
with nowhere to be on time,
for my appointed figment.

Sunny day,
pull over,
take time,
for a forsythia.

Rescue the undebuted chair-in-a-bag,
from the trunk.
Sunbake myself,
until chill.

I will,
I won’t,
someday,
stop chasing me.

Still Life

My still life,
a study in man napping,
uncarefully arranged in full slouch,
one leg draped over one stuffed chair arm,
while one turkey-gorged belly rises and falls,
in sync with the snores.

a ball cap clings
to his predominantly bald head,
his nothing-to-be-ashamed-of-nose
provides a perch
for the finger grimed bill
that shades his eyes.

the still stays until,
itch needs scratching,
brim slips,
nature calls,
then recompose
for a second sitting.

Tim Philippart sold his business, retired to write and discovered that wasn’t very retired at all. He ghost blogs, writes poetry, nonfiction and an occasional magazine piece.  Send emails to timphilippart@yahoo.com and visit www.imaginiscent.net.

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