Hipsters can gossip without end, perhaps
‘bout old Absurdist neck tattoos,
Or Omar Bradley prone, unmoving, still,
With canc’rous tumors gaining ground.
This war is one he cannot win, and in
The closing dark, he sees some dirt upon
His mother’s cushion, what and where it’s from
Unknown, just speculation given now,
Under a coffeehouse umbrella, with
Half-empty wine carafes and bites of pastry.
****** Next challenge ******
Give me a person, place, thing, and a goal. I’ll make a cool poem out of it all!