Haiga Archive

bald
all these years
but still stealing
the complimentary
shampoo

through the lashes
of a squint
our past becomes
a perfect picture
of us and then

a grief
that never lets go…
you stand
as a monument
to yourself

under the clock tower
she asks for the time…
I fumble for my watch

round and round
in circles
our quarrel
rides
the carousel

your tight-lipped
satisfaction
as you
put the moat
around your castle

market closed…
the working girl
set out her stall