by Chris Farago.
Today I’ve been exasperated
and indignant
and somewhat kind
when it was necessary.
I saw a deer
and a crescent moon,
and as I write this
I can hear the crickets
over the whir of the ceiling fan.
The right edge of this poem
is jagged,
the left, uniform.
I could try to smooth it out
the way I used kindness
to smooth out
exasperation
and indignation.
I think it better, though,
to leave it rough
and let the deer
and the crickets
and the moon
have a place to hide.