Who lives, who dies, who decides.
A challenge for Professor Higgins
My poetry lives in the face ofBabyJaan, whose eyes light upat seeing my face on the phone.A voice inside me…
Clad only in an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka-dot bikini, she hailed a big yellow…
Do I even rememberthe ember that burnedto move a pen a-cross the paper, tippity tap on black…
Leaves change and fall every yearPigment bleeds and alters our viewA peek at the universal brevityOf beauty, regardless of hue.
