Left Overs Ii Poem by Morgan Michaels

A wave, like a life, had a trajectory. And he would watch the birds and nod 'Occhi' when asked was he done with dinner and dress simply and eat simply and sometimes forget to shave and listen to absolutely no news. And if he fell sick, he'd let the gods either take him or get him better. In the long run, simple is best. And walking. And sleep. Forgetful sleep. And the songs of the birds. And winter with fewer tourists. It wouldn't be so cold, there.