April is national poetry month.
My mind works
quickly and well these days
and I like the look of myself of late:
a little more meat
around the face, a little more bite
at the back of the lungs,
a little more point to the tip of the tongue--
no wonder I've been smiling
like a melon with a slice missing.
At twenty eight,
I'm not doing great,
but considering I came from the River Colne
and its long, lifeless mud,
I'm doing good.