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