PENTHOUSE
The vent on our oven
rattles in the wind
as though the air
grew fists and mad.
It howls—so apt a phrase!—
high-pitched and whining
against windows
and skylights, turning
the apartment into complaint.
Even on sunny days
when sidewalks
fill with languid wandering,
it knocks and whispers,
as though to ask,
what are you doing
so high?
National Poetry Writing Month is two-thirds of the way through. I have found myself feeling exhausted the last few days, and so my work for this month of poetry has been given less attention. Hoping to find a way to recharge. 10 more to go.
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