B. B. Woodall Poems

You have to love them to sift their latrine,
The uric fragrance burning your nose and eyes
As you render their special place fresh and clean-
One of them watches, impatient, and sighs.
...

Pill bugs wet with dew
as crawling gray domes mirror
green turf, salmon sun.
...

When you are truly old,
No complaint will matter.
Rage about being sick or poor
Or misunderstood
...