Apocrypha

A poem by N.L.H. Hattam

I have never seen a cherry treeAnd yet I find them romantic.Going down to them,Blossoms,Summer fruit,(or so I imagine.Again, I know little of cherry trees.)I think mushrooms are beautiful.And we all know what that means.I don’t like it when people tell the truth.Isn’t there something better to say?Unless it’s about money,Then I want more,Just like grandpa taught me.It hurts me when people say I’m obtuse.The most, most acute bullying.I can’t helpThe way I think.The way I thinkIs such a loser.I am never as kind as I amTo old men,And I so often wonder whose nameI will call toWhen I’ve scraped my last moment off the sun.But until then, I have my recurring dream,In which I’m dreamingOf writing down a thought I hadFrom a nightmare I made up.And then I wake and I write,“Blah, blah, blah.” Featured image (modified) CC0