kob14

You were only 5 or 6 in human years

before your parents did me a favor:

sending me off to the farm.

Don’t worry they really did - 

a lovely farm with rows of corn and chickens

down in Ohio in Amish country 

where there were horses and buggies - 

no electric, no street lights. 

Just brilliant stars and meteor showers.

A quiet place with room to roam.

No leashes or fences. Or terrorizing children. 

They fed me well and didn’t bother me much. 

I napped most days on the front porch, 

eyeing the postman. 

Do you remember when I was on a leash,

tethered to a zip line between two trees? 

You would wake me and taunt me 

and I would chase after you as you ran.

And just as I was about to bite your little behind,

you’d veer and dive out of reach. 

The leash jerking me back -

hind hips flying up - over my head,

twisting in the air, choking myself.

And you’d laugh and laugh. 

Every year 

I wish to write

more 

poetry. 

I set out 

with an ambitious 

goal to write 

a poem a day. 

I consider blogs 

and tweets. 

What is best 

for students?

For teachers? 

Where will they read it?

If it’s not 

on their phones... 

it will never 

happen. 

In an attention 

economy

- and an art

that is an economy 

of words -

attention must be