bad poetry

Here I sit writing bad poetry
While reading Shelley’s Ode To The West Wind
I write of the end of
a love gone
like a deck of playing cards, that was tossed up in the air.
Shattered in the air.
The eye of the queen of spades lands by my foot
The jack of hearts lands in his eye.

It is the end of love.

It is the time of parting.

I cling to the car door.
My fingernails digging in the metal.
Etching the finest of impressions.
In the background
I hear laughter,
a choir of broken glass and frozen birds,
when the midnight sun touches my left eye

And so, I spin in my chair from the window to the desk to record
More bad poetry.