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Todd Balazic: two poems
THE RIGHT FIT
"Poems about illness, death, or suffering are not a good fit."
At least the editor
is honest enough
to save me some postage.
At least now I know what doesn't fit.
My grandfather didn't fit.
Thin as he was,
skin and bones,
he just didn't fit:
he fell out of bed
trying to escape from the hospital,
from cancer,
from death.
They put the mattress on the floor
and moved the bed out of the room.
Problem solved.
A better fit.
It's hard to know
what fits these days.
I'm glad to have a copy of the Poet's Market
to point the way.
To think of the postage
I might have wasted on granpa.
I'm not angry:
all editors should be so honest.
They should help us narrow the field,
help us find what fits.
I think I've got it:
a kitten
with its pink little nose
batting a daisy
in the April sun.
Now that fits.
Fits in a burlap bag
at the bottom of the river.
FLOOD PLAIN
mind
rising with the river
thoughts of water
up the skull of night
till swans touch the stars on top
and drown
Todd Balazic lives in Big Fork, MT. This is his first appearance in an Asterius Press publication.
