by Stan Grimes
A book of poetry is not often easy to create. Thoughts fly by like startled birds in flight and I with my hands out feel only a brisk tickle of a feathered muse. Perhaps it’s easier for some with quicker grasps than mine. For I am sloth slow and cannot crisply snap the fly’s back in mid air. It is left for the young to beat the firing gun. I hang behind like a horse with a shattered shoe.