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A foggy head
laying low in a foggy heart.
A ragged start.
A sinus silo
filling in with pressure grain.
What a pain.
Little I think
above the mucus descent.
My thoughts are bent.
A nasal muse
a mist to be sprayed.
How I prayed.
I saw my dad with a Kleenex
hanging from the right side of
his nose.
Time froze
as I remembered him saying
hello with the dangling
participle waving in the wind.
I guess it is better than
watching a drop form on
the tip of his facial protrusion.
I’ve watched that too.
His leaky facial fawcet
running up a bill.
I wanted to tighten his ear
to dam up the trickle.
Lefty loosey righty tighty.
I suppose the muse cut through
the mucus today
and I am on my way.
Gerald the Writer 
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