For The Lost

Here's to you! My stillborn
poems concieved while chatting
up old ladies, consoling clinging
co-workers, flashing by when
I'm far from trusty pen and paper.

The ribcage of the rabbit, pulsing
frantically, seeking exit from a fenced lot.

The rude Buddhist whose husband mocks her
in secret because abundance is killing him.

The loud Canuck who spoke faster than his
thoughts could formulate and changed his
mind rapidly and adamantly, losing arguments
with himself before they even started.

Each image a flower that will never bloom...