John-Ward Leighton

BUFFALO CHIPS

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all the same when sounded
by a voice.

my sound track
plays randomly twenty four hundred songs
by choice.

and the poem comes together
like gulls circling
in the storm.

songs from forty years ago
my god
where did the time go.

willie with wynton
proving that even the great
can be a buck short and a half hour late.

coffee hits my tongue
now i know my day
has officially begun.

random forever random
good things, bad things
from here to kingdom come.

why the spaces on the margin
i don’t know
but here it comes again.

the lined white pages
tease me for words
like a bellicose challenge from the barbarian hordes.

the orphan line
suggest an end
or perhaps a pause.

like the answer
to a child’s why
is always “because.”

the format is not important
it’s just spill the words on the page
and let them ferment.

i need a title for this tome
something about buffalo chips or the smell of sheep dips
being where the buffalo roam.