baskets of kittens
and puppies stretching
into the corners, wry at times
like twinkling tickling, such an
ya'll, that I'd aspire to
join, but know "better"
a life resigned to the division
yellow filter fantasy, or life
grown cold, flat
remote, grubby from so much lazy handling
And those are shamrocks, no, bows...
next to my staring
eyes that close at
release of the doves and rainbows