My wristwatch checks me for the time,
my verse expects a metered rhyme;

my wallet hits me up for loans,
my secrets beg to be unknown;

my Chevy tries to bum a lift,
and generosity, a gift;

my vodka orders fancy drinks,
my mind keeps asking what I think;

my drums request a shuffle beat,
my furnace pesters me for heat;

the moon suggests I move the tides,
forgiveness, that I let it slide;

my map insists I show the way,
the sun demands I glow today;

the sky inquires why I’m so blue,
and I reply, why aren’t you?

Selected byRaymond Huffman
Image credit:Raymond Huffman

Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.