Screwdrivers

Here's a poem I wrote about...nothing.


Open unturned screwdrivers mixed in with the vegetables
Ice cold breakfast on the plane to Seattle
The losers won the war but we won the battle
Don’t shake me down
Just tip your hat and turn around
The record skips slowly
The sinner jumps holy
Nine-ten-eleven-twelve
There’s too many books to shelve
If I wake up in the middle of the day
The paper in my hand will not blow me away
And if the world’s dreams are not all that it seems
I’ll just stand underneath these sun beams
Looking at me straight
The priest’s gaze penetrates my eyes
I just sit there and pretend to be surprised
Half cooked berry pies
I wonder if the yeast will rise.