I think I was going for a sort of Richard Brautigan feel with today's poem:
PEANUT BUTTER TRUCE
This argument is going
nowhere,
it is like peanut butter
at a February picnic--
both of us
trying to spread thick
cold words
with a tiny plastic knife,
yet the bread keeps
breaking into holes.
We keep at it anyway,
frustrated, attacking the
bread over and over,
until only a pulp remains.
It would be better
if we can just be quiet
for a while,
and forget that we were
ever hungry
in the first place.
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