A Small Hotel
by: Billy Collins
When a match touched
the edge of the page,
my poem filled with smoke,
then a few words
were seen to stumble out
in nothing but their nightgowns
with no idea which way to run.
Sitting here tonight on my couch, listening to a crow scratch at the stars with its caws. My daughter just left a little while ago. She came over to help me set up a new Fire TV Stick and to do her laundry.
It reminded me how much I miss having her living at home. Miss her humor and affections. How she can make her 15-year-old brother smile and shine like a brand new penny. How she will sometimes put her head on my shoulder when she's sitting next to me.
Saint Marty doesn't need to set a page on fire to find a poem.
Buying a Pizza
by: Martin Achatz
She prefers stuffed crust
topped with chicken.
Two or three pieces
with leftovers for breakfast.
Poetry is a cheap date.
